


Embellish Your Heart

by letsjustsee



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bootlegger Harry, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Illegal Activities, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Prohibition, Slow Burn, Slurs, Smut, no anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:39:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsjustsee/pseuds/letsjustsee
Summary: “You’re sort of a mystery, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and Harry looks surprised before he laughs loudly.“Am I?”Louis nods his head a little.“A very interesting, intriguing mystery.”Or, a Bootlegger AU where it's 1925 in small town America, and Louis Tomlinson has never met anyone quite like Harry Styles.





	Embellish Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alex4968](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex4968/gifts).



> Thank you @alex4968 for this prompt - this was a step outside my comfort zone, but I enjoyed every minute of it! I hope you like it!

It’s late, and the heat feels oppressive at this point. Even well past sundown, the unbearable warmth of summer surrounds Louis as he sits in the car with Stan, passing the time any way they can, telling dumb stories, swapping jokes.

Louis hadn’t realized tagging along with Stan as he worked his shift as a police officer would be so boring, so mundane.

Stan swears there’s action, but so far all they’ve done is sit off to the side of this dusty road as night falls around them, one, maybe two cars passing them the whole time. If Louis had known this is what his night was shaping up to be, he never would have offered to hang out with Stan while he works.

“They’re all trash, the lot of ‘em,” he hears Stan mention, having zoned out long ago, not catching the first part of the conversation, lost in his thoughts.

“Hmm?” He makes the sound warily, wondering who Stan is disparaging now.

“The whole lot of ‘em,” Stan repeats, hitting his hand on the steering wheel for emphasis. “Bootleggers. Scourge on society.”

Stan gets like this. He focuses his energy on one group of people, one cause, and spews his anger and hate on them for a while, before moving on to the next thing. Louis’ used to it by now, remembers when Stan would do it back in school too.

“Oh,” Louis says quietly, knowing that Stan isn’t looking for commentary, really. He’s just looking for a stage.

“Like look at us,” Stan says, gesturing with a wide sweep to generalize himself and Louis. “Two hard working men, honest, respectable jobs. Do they pay us in riches? No, but we _earn_ our money.”

Louis nods his head minutely, knowing he needs to just let Stan continue. Louis hasn’t got an opinion one way or the other on the honest, respectable work Stan seems to think they do, but he’s learned the hard way never to disagree with him.

Louis is good at keeping his head down.

“And then these guys come in, bring crime with them,” Stan says in a low, dark tone, shaking his head ominously. “It’s just not right.”

He seems to be done, so Louis makes another noncommittal noise. Enough to appease Stan, but not enough to set him off again.

The sounds of the summer night fill the car again, crickets and cicadas loud in the surrounding fields, and they’re both silent for a while.

The rumbling is what shakes Louis out of a daydream, the distinctive growl of a diesel engine, coming from somewhere down the lane, too far off to see yet.

“Ah shit,” Stan curses under his breath, and Louis looks at him quickly, the question written on his face, although Stan’s not looking at him, his eyes transfixed on the road in front of them. “This is what I was talking about.”

“What?” Louis asks quickly, his blood thrumming, heartrate picking up, glancing around out the windows, the windshield, seeing nothing but the open fields to the right and left of the dirt road, illuminated only by the bright, full moon above them.

“Exactly what I was talking about,” Stan says, shaking his head again. “And this one’s the worst of ‘em.”

Louis can feel his breathing pick up, tries to school it quickly, doesn’t want Stan to catch on to his fear. Louis told himself this is what he wanted – something exciting – but now that he’s got the possibility of a real life bootlegger in front of him, he panics.

“What should we do?” His voice betrays his fear, the note of distress palpable in it as he speaks.

“Just stay off to the side,” Stan says, reaching for his door handle as the rumbling becomes louder, the dim shine of two headlights visible now towards the horizon, dust clouds appearing in the soft glow. “Don’t get involved, ya hear me?”

Louis nods his head, but Stan isn’t looking, already clambering out of the car, so Louis just follows – releases his own door, climbs out on shaky, nervous legs. His mouth feels dry, and he’s swallowing more than normal, hyperaware of how his body is reacting in the dark, quiet night.

The engine overpowers everything now, the buzz of insects drowned out completely, Louis’ ears roaring with the noise, or maybe his own blood, he can’t tell. He watches as Stan turns on a flashlight, gets in the middle of the road, holds up a hand in an attempt at authority. Louis slinks to the side, closer to the open field, away from the beams of light jerkily making their way towards them.

He sees the car come into view, a brand new Model T, its shine noticeable even in the dim, orange glow of the headlights, and it slows when the light beams fall on Stan blocking its path.

Louis swallows thickly, glancing between Stan and the car, hoping the shadows are enough to keep him hidden where he stands, a nervous thrill running through him as he tries to catch a glimpse of the bootlegger where he sits, his body just a silhouette in the darkness.

Stan makes a motion with his hand, drawing it across his neck, a signal to kill the engine, and the driver complies. The silence is stark now, Louis’ ears adjusting back to the quiet, watching the scene in front of him with bated breath.

“Evening, Stan,” a deep, deep voice greets from the darkness of the cab, and Louis feels his stomach drop at the noise, squints harder in the dim light to try and catch sight of the mysterious man.

“Styles,” Stan acknowledges, his mouth a tense line on his face. Louis knows Stan, knows he’s trying his best to appear authoritative right now, trying not to betray the nerves that Louis can see in the way his hand wobbles slightly, the flashlight beam quivering minutely. Louis can’t look away no matter how hard he tries.

“What can I do for you this evening?” The driver doesn’t sound nervous. He sounds conversational, friendly, like this is a chance meeting of old friends, and not a bootlegger staring down the law.

“Why don’t you get out of the car, and we can have a chat,” Stan says, harsher than Louis thinks is necessary. He’s probably trying to compensate, cover up the fact that he’s scared, and it makes Louis flush with secondhand embarrassment. Shouldn’t Stan be the confident one here?

He hears a quiet chuckle from inside the cab, and then the door is opening, the shadowed figure of the bootlegger coming into full relief in the light of the headlamps. Louis’ breath catches in his throat, and he sees the man glance in his direction quickly, looking back at Stan without a change in his demeanor.

Louis flushes again, this time with his own humiliation. He just hadn’t expected a bootlegger to look… like this. The man is probably no older than Louis, in his early twenties perhaps, with long legs wrapped up in a tailored suit. Louis watches as the man brings his large hands together and rubs them, looking almost amused at the situation. His eyes trail upwards to his face, a large smile and two dimples framing it. His hair is coiffed back, styled elegantly, the contrast between the dusty, lonely road and this polished man striking Louis heavily.

He watches as this man, this ‘Styles’, takes a few slow, calculated steps towards Stan, opening his arms in almost a shrug, smiling at Stan brightly.

“Is there a reason for this?” He sounds pleased, like this is all a big joke, and Louis feels a small zip of indignant anger on behalf of his friend. Surely this man knows to show more respect to an officer of the law? Louis finds himself moving forward slowly, unable to stop himself, just to get a better view of the scene. He’s mostly still in shadow, on the other side of Stan’s car, but from here he can watch the two of them interact more fully.

“You know why I stopped you, Styles,” Stan says, a slightly more relaxed note appearing in his voice, the easy banter of the bootlegger seeming to almost calm Stan, make his voice a little steadier. Or maybe he’s just covering his nerves better, Louis can’t be sure. “Let’s see what you’re hiding in this vehicle.”

Louis’ heart beats wildly now, he swears he can hear it over the lull of the cicadas, over the conversation happening twenty feet away from him. He fears it will give away his position with how loud it must be.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend first?” The bootlegger asks, and Louis freezes, panic seizing his heart, as he sees the man turn to look at him full in the face, the shadows around Louis not doing enough to hide him completely.

“Don’t you mind him,” Stan says, an angry lilt to his words, and Louis feels a shot of appreciation for his friend, for his instincts to protect Louis. There’s no telling what this man is capable of, and Louis feels paralyzed with fear.

“Aw, I’m just having some fun,” the man says, turning back now towards Stan, and Louis lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He watches curiously as the bootlegger crosses his arms, leans against the side of his own car, keeps shooting curious glances in Louis’ direction.

“Quit stallin’,” Stan says, redirecting the conversation back around, gesturing with his flashlight towards the car, the light catching on the windshield. “We both know you’re carrying.”

“Do we know that?” The man hasn’t moved an inch, still leaning easily up against the hood, still smiling calmly, and Louis feels captivated by his relaxed manner. He notices too late that he’s moved about five feet closer again, now almost in front of Stan’s car, watching the scene unfold.

The way the light of Styles’ car shines on Stan, leaves the bootlegger in the shadows, seems to give him the upper hand. If Louis didn’t know any better, he’d say Styles was in charge of this moment, guiding it effortlessly with his easy words and bright smile.

“I’m not jokin’ around,” Stan yells, the hardened tone to his voice betraying some of his hysteria. “Let’s see it.”

“Now Stan,” the bootlegger says, uncrossing his arms and placing a hand on the hood of the car, the other on his hip delicately, popping it out. Louis’ eyes are drawn to it, glued to it, without permission. “Have you already forgotten how this went last time?”

Louis shoots a quick glance at Stan, not understanding the reference, but it’s written all over Stan’s face – he falters. He’s got him shook up somehow, because Stan’s biting his lip and furrowing his brow, and Louis watches on with confusion.

“Who’s to say I’m not just out for a late night drive? Wouldn’t want to search a man’s car without reason, would ya,” the man starts tapping his fingers on the hood of his car, the rhythmic drumming loud in the quiet moment. “I seem to remember you gettin’ into an awful lot of trouble last time you accused me of something that wasn’t true.”

Louis stares at the man’s face, searching for any sign of a bluff, but it’s not there. When he glances over at Louis and they catch eyes in the dim light, Louis flushes, looks away immediately, and hears a quiet chuckle that makes his stomach flip over.

“And now you’ve got an audience,” he says, referencing Louis, which causes him to look up from the ground, but the bootlegger is staring down Stan again, steely in his gaze. “It’d be a shame to embarrass yourself like that.”

“Shut your mouth,” Stan yells, uncontrolled fury leaking through. He’s losing his edge, if he ever had an edge to begin with, and Louis’ starting to sweat through his shirt, from the heat and the tension of the moment. Louis starts sending silent messages to Stan, _just do it_ , _he’s bluffing_ , but they don’t reach him.

Loaded silence blankets them all for about a minute, before-

“Get outta here, Styles,” Stan says, dropping the beam of the flashlight to the ground, his shoulders sinking in defeat.

“What?” The bootlegger sounds surprised, the first clue he’s given in the whole interaction that he’s not in complete control. “Thought you’d put up a fight this time, Stanley.”

“Just get outta here!” Stan’s yell echoes throughout the lane, the strain of the moment pulsating around the three of them.

The bootlegger sighs, like he’s been robbed of something he wanted, and glances back in Louis’ direction. They make eye contact again, and the man smiles at him, small, private, so Stan can’t see, and Louis’ stomach drops. He has to look away quickly, his cheeks heating up.

He hears another one of those quiet chuckles, and then the man is clambering back into his car, the engine roaring to life in the quiet lane.

Before Louis can process anything, the Model T is making its way down the road once again, and the two of them watch it disappear for a few long minutes.

Stan is the first to move, shuffling towards the car, not speaking. Louis’ not sure what to do, if he should do anything, so he climbs back into the front seat, waiting for something to happen.

After a few long seconds, he chances a glance at Stan, whose profile he can see in the bright moonlight leaking into the car. He’s staring out at the road ahead of them, not really seeing it, his face blank, and Louis worries that they’re going to sit there in silence all night.

But then he clears his throat, hoping to shake Stan out of whatever’s got him spooked, and Stan blinks twice, quickly in succession. He shakes his head a little, bringing himself back to the moment, and mutters, “Fucking bastard.”

Louis knows he shouldn’t ask, knows with every fiber inside of him that asking is a bad idea, that entangling himself in this situation will only bring trouble, but he’s helpless to stop the words.

“Who was that?”

At first, Louis thinks Stan won’t even answer him, and the question lingers in the air, the cicadas the only thing breaking up the silence.

But then he hears two words, a name, and something strange stirs inside of him.

“Harry Styles.”

Louis shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a question on his tongue, opening and closing his mouth several times, too afraid to voice it. Stan continues speaking before he can.

“He’s part of the biggest bootlegger ring around. The Payne family. And he’s the key to bringing them down, but nobody can fucking nab him.”

Stan’s voice is laced with bitterness, and he’s still staring out the front windshield, not really watching anything.

Louis’ about to ask more, ask why Stan didn’t demand more of Harry Styles, ask what happened between them in the past, but Stan speaks again.

“Fuckin’ fag, too.”

A panic, a fear like Louis hasn’t felt in a long time grabs him around the throat, silences him, chokes him up. The blood is back in his ears, pounding, and he clenches his stomach in, a defensive gesture, _hide, hide, hide_. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t nod his head, begs the universe silently for Stan to move on, to miss the palpable fear that Louis is sure is coming off his body in waves. He bites his lip tightly, holds his breath, and mercifully the moment passes, and Stan keeps chattering.

Louis is good at keeping his head down.

“He walks around this town so smug, like he owns it,” Stan hisses, his teeth clenched in rage. Louis’ heartrate is still pounding, but he’s trying to control his breathing and pay attention to Stan at the same time, trying to remain calm. “I’m gonna bring that bastard down, I swear it.”

Louis nods his head finally, makes a small noise of agreement, enough to appease Stan, enough to keep himself hidden. Stan keeps blathering, talking about this Payne family, talking about Harry, calling bootleggers a scourge on society again. Louis just wants to get out of here, wants to be back at home and not in this car with Stan, but he’s trapped. He’s not paying attention when he hears Stan addressing him at last.

“Swear it, Louis,” he says, his body turned slightly in the car towards Louis’ side, and Louis flushes again, embarrassed that he wasn’t listening at all.

“Huh?”

“Don’t you get involved in any of that shit,” he says, emphatically, pointing a finger at Louis. “If you see Harry Styles around town, you just walk the other direction, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Louis says quickly, easily agreeing. He would say anything in this moment to keep Stan from really seeing him.

“Swear it,” Stan says, his finger only a few inches from Louis’ face now, and Louis’ heartrate picks back up.

“Okay,” Louis says holding his hands up innocently, trying to adopt a casual tone, a tone that says _I would never_. “I swear it.”

The words come easily to him, falling out of his mouth without hesitation. Of course he’ll stay away from Harry Styles.

Of course.

\--

The summer sun beats down relentlessly on Louis, even in the late afternoon. The harbor is still a rush of noise and activity, the other dock workers hurrying to finish up, to get home as quickly as possible. Louis finishes the unloading of heavy boxes in front of him to wipe his brow, takes his hat off for a moment and catches his breath.

Gulls dart in and around them, slicing the blue sky above them with gray streaks as they try and catch fish from the water. The docked barges and cargo boats that come in and out daily bob slightly in the water, the lapping sound of the water against the dock on a constant rhythm throughout the day. Men’s voices ring out everywhere, yelling instructions, yelling curses, and it’s a dulled flurry of muted colors and low-pitched sounds and sweat, and sweat, and sweat.

He almost rolls his eyes when he remembers Stan’s insistence on calling this honest, respectable work.

It’s how Louis helps keep food on the table for his family. Nothing more, nothing less. He doesn’t think there’s much respect in unloading crates all day under the hot Michigan sun, but Stan’s always been a bit of a blowhard.

The whistle sounds off in the distance, the signal that it’s quitting time, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He takes a moment, twists himself around, trying to soothe his aching back as best he can, before heading in the direction of home. The harbor gets livelier after that whistle, people coming back to themselves, back to life a little, and he listens in on his coworkers joking, laughing as they walk away from the docks.

He’s already thinking about the shower he’ll have once he’s home, the clean clothes he’ll trade for these sweaty, dirty overalls he wears day in and out.

It takes him far too long to notice the Model T sitting in the deserted lot in front of the harbor.

He’s lost in his own reverie, thoughts of quiet, dark lanes and deep, deep voices, when he finally looks up and sees it. It shines in the afternoon sun, no question of who it belongs to, and Louis stops so quickly in his tracks that someone runs smack into him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, trying to placate his grumpy coworker, who continues on his walk without so much as a word in Louis’ direction.

He’s flustered, looking around for an escape, but of course there is none. The harbor sits behind him, the sun bouncing off the water in diamond-like shimmers, and the abandoned lot is the only way out of here – the only way Louis will be able to walk home.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, determined to look straight ahead and keep marching, determined to ignore the car, and its owner, at all costs.

He’s approaching it quickly, the sheen of the paint glittering in his periphery, taunting him, drawing his eyes against his will, but he continues on.

It’s not until he’s level with the car, it sitting off to his right, that he hears a deep voice calling to him.

“Not even gonna say hello?”

It startles him out of his concentration, and he stumbles a little, catching a glimpse of Harry Styles, leaning against the hood of the car, arms and legs crossed in front of him, the picture of casual indifference.

He’s wearing another suit, pristine, tailored, and Louis feels like laughing at how stark the difference is between them, at the state of his own clothes, covered in sweat and grime, patched up from years of wear and tear.

The voice of Stan echoes through his head, _ignore him, ignore him_ , so it comes as quite a shock when Louis hears his own voice answering.

“Hello.”

Harry smirks, like he expected the greeting, and Louis flushes, sticks his hands in his pockets, stares at the ground. He doesn’t know why he’s not still walking, but his feet feel stuck to the ground, something keeping him there.

“Good day at work?”

Harry’s voice is dripping with mirth, like he can’t even control it, the smile he must be leveling Louis with bright, even though Louis refuses to look up. He bites his lip and toes the ground with his boot, the internal struggle warring inside of him. He should leave, he should ignore the question, he should get going right now if he knows what’s good for him.

“How did you know I worked here?” Louis asks the ground, still doesn’t look up, ignores Harry’s question altogether.

The quiet chuckle is what gets Louis to finally glance at Harry, and he’s smiling at Louis like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. It makes Louis’ stomach do something funny, makes his cheeks heat up, but he tries to maintain eye contact, doesn’t want to look weak in front of a bootlegger like Harry.

“It’s a small town,” Harry offers, with a little shrug. Louis tries to quiet his brain from connecting that to the fact that Harry must have asked about him, must have done some digging in the day since they met. “You were pretty easy to track down, Louis.”

Harry saying his name causes something to happen in his gut, something unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

They’re staring at each other now, neither of them looking away, and Louis can feel the way his cheeks are reddening, can do nothing to stop it.

Louis didn’t think it was possible for Harry’s smile to get bigger, but he proves him wrong. He searches his brain, scrambling for something interesting to say, something that would warrant why he’s still stuck in place, why he stopped in the first place to say hello. He needs the answer just as much, if not more, than Harry might.

“Would you like to go somewhere with me?”

It wasn’t what Louis was expecting Harry to say, and he’s surprised into moving slightly, his upper body leaning back involuntarily and his eyebrows shooting upwards.

“What?” He stammers the word out, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he’s pretty sure he’s not just sweating from the heat anymore.

Harry looks down and scratches his neck, the first time that Louis’ seen him look anything but in control, and he seems a little sheepish as he repeats himself, a little quieter, looking Louis in the eye again.

“Would you like to go somewhere with me?” 

“Where?” Louis asks, knowing that his only response should be a _no thank you_ , followed by a _goodbye_ , but his mouth seems to be acting without his permission today.

“It’s, ah,” Harry looks off to the side, smiles a little bit. He looks back at Louis and shrugs. “It’s a secret?”

He says it like he knows how unsatisfying the answer is, like he knows how evasive he’s being, but he can’t help it. Louis tries not to feel endeared at Harry’s little half smirk that’s still on his face, and he tries even harder not to feel intrigued that a bootlegger is inviting him to secret locations.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says, before he can think better of it. He almost claps a hand over his mouth once the words are out, wants to take them back as he watches Harry’s face contort into a confused grimace.

But then realization seems to take over, and Harry’s back to his smooth demeanor.

“Ah,” he says nodding his head slowly, pushing his body off the hood of the car and walking a few paces closer to Louis. “The good officer Lucas, I assume?”

Louis doesn’t respond, just swallows roughly and continues to stare at Harry’s face, willing his eyes not to travel down the length of that pristine suit. Harry’s only a few feet from him now, he can see how green his eyes look in the fading sunlight, and Louis’ tongue darts out unconsciously to wet his dry lips. His mouth suddenly feels parched, overwhelmingly so, and he tries to swallow again.

“Do you always do everything Stan Lucas tells you to?”

Coming from anyone else, it might feel like a dig, like an insult, but from Harry it’s soft and genuine, more like a good natured joke than a prod at Louis, and he feels himself smiling despite the question.

“No,” he says, but it comes out quiet and shy, and Louis has to look down at the ground again.

“Then come with me.”

Harry says it so easily, like Louis could just leave the docks right now, in his dusty overalls, and fit in wherever Harry wants to go. Like he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb next to Harry’s suit, or sitting in his shiny car, and Louis doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation.

“I have to get home,” Louis says instead, glancing up to see Harry’s face fall slightly. He tacks on quickly, “I’m sorry.”

And despite himself, despite his promises to Stan, he finds that he means it. He is sorry. Sorry that he’s not someone different, that he doesn’t have a different life, that he isn’t someone who could drive off in the middle of the day with bootlegger Harry Styles.

Harry’s tone is back to a soft, comforting thing when he says, “It’s alright. I understand.”

This is where Louis should turn and leave, should say goodbye and leave this ridiculous scenario behind, but he’s still stuck, so they both stand there quietly for a moment, and Louis keeps shooting glances at Harry, whose gaze is firmly stuck on him. He sees when his expression transforms from a neutral disappointment to something a little more devious, another one of those damn smirks appearing on his lips. Louis starts to fidget a little, bounces on the balls of his feet slightly, because he knows what that smirk means. Harry has noticed that he’s not moving either. Louis’ losing any power he might have had over this situation.

“Well,” he hears Harry’s syrupy voice say, and his eyes are drawn to his pink mouth as he forms the words. “Let me give you a ride home, at least.”

He gestures over his shoulder as he says it, the bright paint of the Model T sparkling in the sun, looking out of place against the backdrop of dust and dirt and harbor.

Louis allows himself to imagine quickly, just for a moment, what it would look like for him to slide into Harry Styles’ car, to ride around town with the wind blowing in his face, to look to his left and watch Harry’s dimples up close. But then he looks down at his overalls, caked in grime, and it shakes him back to reality.

“Uhh,” he stumbles, his brain trying to catch up with his mouth. “No, that’s- that’s alright.”

He adds a quick, quiet _thank you_ under his breath, and Harry steps toward him hastily, close enough now to see the details on his suit, see the intricate buttons over his chest, and it makes Louis inhale sharply.

“Alright,” Harry whispers, the loud shrieks of gulls around them almost covering the word. Louis’ eyes track the movement as Harry reaches into a pocket inside his jacket, withdrawing a small white card between his elegant fingers, holding it out towards Louis carefully. “If you change your mind.”

He doesn’t offer any more details, but Louis reaches out quickly to snatch the offering, pocketing it without glancing, looking around them for any prying eyes. He panics a little, wonders what he’s doing here in this empty lot with Harry Styles.

Harry levels him with another brilliant smile, starts backing away still facing him, hands casually in his pockets.

“I’ll be there all night.”

And there it is again, that tone, that smirk, like a secret that Louis isn’t even sure he’s in on yet. The sound of his voice drips with certainty, not just that Harry will be there, but that Louis will too. It makes Louis flush all over.

He can’t look away as Harry ducks back into his car, the engine roaring to life and covering up all sounds of the harbor behind them. He gives Louis another smile, and a little wave, before he’s rumbling out of the lot, the dirt billowing up behind his wheels as he goes.

Louis’ stomach is in knots, and he reaches into his pocket to feel the small, white card, tracing the edges with his fingertips, not allowing himself to look at it just yet.

Because he’s not going to go, wherever it is that Harry invited him. He’s going to go home, take a shower, and forget all about this interaction.

He’s not going.

\--

The pavement under Louis’ feet makes a _smack smack_ sound with every step, and he swears the whole town is going to wake up from how loud it feels.

He hasn’t been wandering around this late since he was in high school, and it feels illicit, sends a zap of electricity through him as he watches for any signs of neighbors, any clue that someone might catch him in the act.

He slows his pace, trying to calm his nerves. He’s just going for a stroll, that’s all. Even if someone were to look out their window, all they would see was Louis walking around late at night, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

That was what he told himself as he rushed home after work and showered, what he reminded himself of as he put on his nicest shirt and suspenders, what he promised himself as he spent time on styling his hair in the mirror.

He wasn’t going to the address on the little white card. He was just going to take a walk, see what happens.

It feels flimsy, even now as he tries to hold on tightly to the idea that there’s no reason for the butterflies in his stomach. He tries in vain to rationalize it, tries to convince himself that stopping by wherever this card led him wasn’t a bad idea – that he wasn’t breaking his promise to Stan, because maybe he could have stumbled on this place coincidentally.

He bites his lip as excuse after excuse falls flat in his head. He should really turn around and go home, right now.

His feet keep carrying him in the opposite direction.

When he had tentatively, cautiously taken the white card out of his pocket, staring at it from the privacy of his bedroom, he didn’t know what he expected. An explanation? A detailed account of what was going to happen?

It was an address, hastily scribbled, and one word – “Peaches”.

That was it. Louis had turned the card over a few times, expecting more, but finding nothing.

And now he’s walking quickly down the deserted, dark streets, heading in the direction of town, jumping slightly at the smallest noises that seem amplified in the quiet night.

The houses eventually give way to darkened shopfronts as he nears the center of town, the dusty, gravelly roads of the outskirts getting wider, turning to well-kept pavement. Louis glances around nervously again, expecting someone to jump out and stop him, but he finds no resistance.

He looks at the card again, illuminated in the moonlight, hoping it will give him some answers. He hasn’t been to the address before, but it seems to be located somewhere off the main street, a side road or alley that Louis is unfamiliar with.

His heart beats up into his throat as he gets closer, the anticipation and fear pounding in him like a drum.

He turns off the main street into a darkened alleyway, hopes he’s in the right place. The mild fear he felt walking around at night spikes, the little bit of moonlight that illuminated his walk mostly snuffed out in this alley, and the buildings surrounding him plunge him into almost total darkness. His breath sounds loud and echoey here, and he’s unsure where to go. There are no doors visible, no entryways to guide him.

Dread bubbles up in him as a thought takes root that maybe this was all a joke. Maybe Harry Styles was making fun of him, toying with the silly friend of Stan Lucas, and this was all an elaborate attempt to get Louis out in the middle of the night.

It’s only when a small noise breaks through, cutting up the sound of blood pounding in his ears, that he freezes, looks around for something that’s not there. He strains to hear it again, and after a tense moment he thinks he can pick it out – quiet, faint music, almost imperceptible in the silent alley. He wanders off to his right a bit, trying hard to trace the sounds, and finds himself at the edge of a railing.

Squinting his eyes into the darkness, he’s able to detect a staircase beneath it, something he never would have seen otherwise, and – his pulse picks up at this – the faintest, smallest trace of light somewhere below him, a tiny line of illumination down at the bottom of the stairs.

It seems unlikely, but it’s his only chance at this point, so Louis carefully navigates himself to the top of the stairs, feeling his way around the railing until he comes to the opening at the front.

Just as he’s about to descend, he stops, breathing heavily. Is he really doing this? Showing up at a random address that a bootlegger handed him, sneaking around in the middle of the night?

But then he thinks about Harry’s smirk, about his eyes shining and his dimples, looking at Louis like he was something important, and it tips him over the edge.

He quickly skips down, not mindful of the dark or falling, thinking only about getting to the door that’s at the bottom. And because the adrenaline is pumping heavily through him now, he doesn’t stop to second guess, doesn’t stop to think, simply reaches out and knocks quickly on the door, the sound bouncing off all the surfaces nearby.

It startles him when a little window opens, right about eye level, and a square of light appears in the darkness, bright in its contrast to the surrounding black.

It startles him more that a pair of squinting, brown eyes are staring at him now, looking menacing even on their own.

Louis has no idea what to do, what to say, and he stares at the eyes for a long moment before clearing his throat and attempting a friendly, “Um, hello.”

He hears a scoff, sees the eye roll, and the window is promptly shut, plunging Louis back into an even starker darkness, the outline of the little window still burned behind his eyelids. Louis flushes, can tell his cheeks are red even if no one is around to see it, and his stomach drops with dismay. He’s done something wrong, but he doesn’t even know what.

Should he leave?

He sticks his hands in his pockets, wracking his brain for what he could have done differently, how to get himself past this mysterious door, when he starts fidgeting nervously with the card in his pocket.

_The card._

A surge of reckless confidence goes through him, and he feels like he’s just figured out a tough riddle, when he knocks again, more sure this time.

The window opens immediately, the brown eyes reappearing and looking even more suspicious, even more menacing. It deflates Louis a bit, and he stumbles a little over his quiet attempt.

“Um, peaches?” It comes out as a question, and the window shuts promptly, dread pooling in Louis’ gut that he hasn’t figured it out, that he’ll have to turn around and slink home after all. But then he hears the distinct scrape of multiple locks, and his heart beats wildly as the door swings open, the dim light from behind it illuminating the empty stairwell, and Louis doesn’t think twice before stepping inside.

He’s in a small room, an entryway, with another door directly ahead of him. The only things in this room are a lone lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, dimly sputtering every so often, and a stool next to the door where Brown Eyes must have been sitting. He takes in the man who’s currently shutting the door behind him, locking up all four of the bolts that protect it, a book laying open on the stool behind him.

The man is large, with broad shoulders and thick arms, and Louis isn’t sure what to do now. Does he speak to this man? Does he walk through the door in front of him? Every step of this excursion so far feels like a disaster, like Louis’ wearing a sign that says he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Well,” the man speaks, making Louis jump. “Go on.”

He watches as the man gestures in the direction of the second door, and Louis gulps, nodding his head slightly. Reaching out with tentative fingers, he grasps the knob, twisting slowly and opening the heavy door with fluttering anticipation.

A burst of noise erupts in front of him, surprising Louis, and he scurries inside as the door slams with a resounding _thunk_. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he stays put, taking in the room around him.

It’s packed with people, loudly chattering and laughing above the din of noise and music. He looks to the left where a small stage is set up, a woman in a tight, floor length dress singing into a microphone, a few accompanying band members behind her. He recognizes the song, something his mom sings around the house, but he doesn’t know the name of it. She’s got a sultry voice, and people in front of the stage are transfixed, clapping their hands, tapping their feet along to the rhythm.

He tears his eyes away to take in the rest of the room, smoky and dark, and notices how close everyone seems to be. People crowded around small tables, their heads bent together with smiles on their faces. Women sitting on men’s laps, sharing drags of cigarettes with each other, small groups of people scattered around, everyone packed in tightly, the energy thrumming.

And then off to the right, a large, dark wood bar, with even more bodies in front of it, everyone clambering to get a spot, glasses clinking together as people cheers and toast without much finesse.

Realization settles over Louis and his nerves kick up tenfold. He’s heard about places like this from Stan, from the men at the harbor, whispered rumors and quiet suggestions that there were still places people could go to get booze. He just didn’t think they existed in their tiny town.

And now Louis is smackdab in the middle of one, standing awkwardly at the door, unsure where to go.

He begins to move, if only to get away from a place where he’s so out in the open, making his way towards the most crowded part of the room – the bar. He keeps his head down, not looking anyone in the eye, worried that someone will recognize him and call him out for being there, for not belonging.

When he gets to the most crowded area, voices on voices stacking up around him, he isn’t sure what to do, whether he should push his way through or just hover towards the back. He wonders, the thought permeating every other thought he’s had since he entered, whether Harry is there, whether he’ll see him at all. Miraculously, a group of people shuffles off towards the stage at that moment, leaving an opening directly in front of Louis, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide in, positioning himself amidst the crowd of people on a rickety bar stool. It soothes him a little, to have a seat, to not be nervously hovering, to be surrounded on either side by chatter, nobody really paying attention to him.

He relaxes a bit and allows his gaze to wander, watching men and women toss back shots of liquor, others sipping slowly at colorful cocktails, some taking long pulls from mugs of frothy beer. Despite his nerves, he feels excited, something gathering in his belly that feels anticipatory, like anything could happen.

He startles when a jovial voice calls from behind the bar, “What can I get ya, friend?”

His eyes dart to the man standing with his hands on his hips, an apron covering his lower half, a bright smile on his face. Louis’ relieved to see the smile, to hear the welcoming nature to this guy’s tone.

“Uhh,” Louis stammers out, completely out of his element.

The guy seems to sense his hesitation, because he continues.

“Haven’t seen ya here before. I’m Niall.” He sticks out a hand across the bar, and Louis tentatively takes it, shakes Niall’s hand firmly before offering up his own name.

“I’m, uhh, I’m Louis,” he says, wondering how smart it is to share his name with this man, but throwing caution to the wind. “Harry,” he pauses, clears his throat. “Harry Styles invited me.”

He says it as quietly as he can, while still talking over the din of conversation around them, glancing around, not sure what kind of reputation Harry’s name carries around here, unsure of his role.

The man’s face lights up with recognition.

“Oh! Well why didn’t ya say so?” The man starts to pull out a few bottles from underneath the bar, pouring up a drink almost without looking at it, sliding it to a man a few people down from Louis, and Louis watches as the man gratefully accepts it and throws it back. He hadn’t even asked for one, so Louis has no idea how Niall anticipated it. He replaces the bottles and smiles at Louis again, unaffected. “Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine.”

Louis smiles back at him, unable not to when confronted with such hospitality, his gut loosening some of the anxiety that’s tied him up since he walked inside.

“So what are you havin’?” Niall asks again, so casually, that smile still playing on his lips, and Louis freezes. He had no idea this is where he would end up tonight, sitting at an illegal bar and being asked what he’s drinking. He glances around covertly, taking in everyone around him drinking steadily, without a care in the world. Could he do that? He tries to imagine himself ordering a drink, the picture of nonchalance, but he clams up and can’t get the words out, stammers a little under Niall’s friendly gaze.

“Two Manhattans, Niall.”

The deep voice over Louis’ shoulder startles him, and he jumps, turns his head to see Harry Styles sliding onto the empty stool next to him, two fingers held up towards the bar, a vision in yet another extravagant suit.

Louis vaguely notices Niall leaving to make their drinks, mostly just attuned to Harry getting comfortable on the stool next to him, the smile he levels at Louis that lights up his whole face.

“Louis,” he says, by way of any greeting, and Louis shivers a little at how his name sounds coming from Harry’s mouth. “You came.”

Harry’s tone is disbelieving and hopeful, laced with something like awe, and that surprises Louis. He expected more confidence, more certainty like Harry displayed earlier, but this quiet relief that he hears gives him even more to think about, gives him more butterflies.

Louis can only nod, smiles a little, and they end up sitting like that for a minute, the noise in the bar creating a bubble around the two of them, silent at its center.

He’s shaken out of it when Niall reappears, sliding two glasses in front of them, an amber liquid inside, with a single cherry floating in each glass. Harry turns away finally to give his thanks, and Louis murmurs a barely audible _thank you_ before Niall is off again, his attention turning to other patrons at the bar.  

Harry doesn’t hesitate to grab the glass, bringing it to his lips and tasting, and Louis’ eyes are drawn once again to his mouth, pink and wet.

He looks away when he catches Harry’s eye, focusing instead on his own glass, nervously reaching out to touch it, not grabbing it yet.

He almost gasps when he feels Harry close to him, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “No one will care if you drink it. That’s what everyone’s here for.”

The words tickle, Harry’s breath warm on Louis’ face, and heat pools in Louis’ gut. He notices the way Harry smells, clean and spicy, like aftershave, and it makes him feel dizzy. Harry lingers there a moment longer, no longer speaking, but his mouth is still close to Louis’ face, and it feels intimate despite the crowd of people around them. Harry seems lost in the moment too, pulling back only after the loud scrape of a chair nearby startles him, and he smiles at Louis as he takes another sip of his own drink.

Louis picks up the glass with some apprehension, sniffing it first, and he hears a small chuckle from Harry. He looks up, and can’t help the smile he shares with him, the shrug he gives instead of trying the drink immediately.

“So, you own this place?” Louis asks, hoping to distract Harry from watching him, and as he listens to Harry’s answer he takes a small, cautious sip of the liquid. It burns, sweet and warm going down, and he coughs a little after he swallows. If Harry notices, he doesn’t say anything, but Louis can see his mouth quirk up a little as he speaks.

“No, no,” he says, an easy, relaxed rhythm to his voice, and Louis is drawn in immediately. “The Payne’s own it. Liam, their son, has been a friend forever.”

He gestures towards the front of the room, and Louis glances quickly, not seeing anything in particular.

“He works the front door, you passed him on your way in.”

Louis nods in understanding, grabs his glass, and takes another tentative sip. It burns a little less this time, the flavors of the drink more obvious this go around, and Louis’ thankful for something to hold onto right now, something to focus on other than the intense gaze of Harry’s green eyes.

“The Payne’s are like family to me,” Harry continues, and Louis glances at his face to see his focus has moved somewhere else, a far off expression in his eyes. “Took care of me.” He shakes his head, smiles a little, before he continues. “ _Take_ care of me.”

Louis nods, trying to put the pieces together.

“So you work for them?”

He’s going for casual, innocuous, but the quirk of Harry’s mouth tells him that his intentions are obvious. Louis is itching for more information, craves to know more about this mysterious Harry Styles, but can’t find it in himself to just ask.

Harry huffs a breath of air out, amused, and smiles. “You could say that.”

Louis thinks that’s the end of the conversation, so he takes another sip, looks around the bar. The singer has started in on another song, something a little slower, a little quieter, and some people stand up to dance with each other between the tables.

He’s concentrating on watching them when Harry speaks again, unprovoked.

“Liam’s parents watched out for me growing up,” he says quietly, quiet enough that Louis finds himself leaning forward, listening intently, ignoring the noise around them. “Made sure I went to school, made sure I had enough to eat.”

This last part sounds like a confession, like something private, and Louis bites his lip, looks up into Harry’s face, whose eyes are cast down onto the drink in his hand. It’s the first time Louis’ seen him look like this. Vulnerable.

Harry pauses for a moment like he’s remembering, his brow furrowed, and Louis finds himself wanting to smooth it out, to make him happy again. It only lasts a few seconds before Harry is taking a deep breath, shaking himself out of it, and a small smile appears once more on his face. Louis catches himself mirroring it.

“When Liam and I were old enough, his old man started showing us the ropes of the family business.” There’s a light back in his eyes now, a mirth to his speech, and Louis is captivated.

“They always told me ‘Harry, you don’t have to get involved’, but they were my family. _Are_ my family,” he corrects himself. “I wanted to.” He looks up into Louis’ eyes when he says this, such a heavy simplicity to his words, and all of the thoughts buzzing around Louis’ brain quiet down as they lock eyes. It feels like a loaded moment, like something’s going on behind the words that they’re saying to each other, but Louis can’t grasp what it is just yet. A few more seconds pass, electricity buzzing beneath Louis’ skin, before Harry speaks again.

“So here I am,” he says, still watching Louis intensely. “Almost ten years later, running liquor over the border on Canadian boats.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, breaking the tension of the moment, and Harry giggles at his reaction, taking a long swig of his drink, like he knows exactly what he’s just done.

“You,” Louis starts, stuttering over his words, surprised at Harry’s forthcoming attitude. “You’re, uhh.”

He tries and fails to articulate what he’s feeling, how surprised he is that Harry offered up that information without prodding.

Of all the thoughts and questions swirling around Louis’ head, what ends up coming out is a rushed and breathy, “Why do you trust me?”

Harry leans in closer to him, not breaking eye contact, and Louis feels like the noise of the bar around them fades away, focused only on the green of Harry’s eyes, the pink of his mouth, and the tongue that darts out to wet them.

“Should I not?”

It takes Louis aback for a few seconds, the candor they’re both displaying, the heavy, unasked questions between them, and Louis has to look away to think of a response.

Seems like every time Harry Styles corners him, he ends up saying the wrong thing, which must be why he ignores the question in favor of blurting, “Stan is like a brother to me.”

Whatever bubble was encasing them seems to pop then, because Harry huffs out a frustrated note as he leans back slightly, takes another sip of his drink, looks away from Louis. Despite himself, Louis finds his brain screaming _no, take it back, I didn’t mean it_ , and wishes desperately that Harry would invade his space again.

He’s wracking his brain for something to defuse the moment when Harry speaks again, his tone no longer soft, but hardened and critical.

“Stanley Lucas is a joke.”

And even though Louis has felt a pull towards Harry all day, has felt something unspoken happening between them that he doesn’t know how to define, a swell of indignant anger bursts up through him, courses out of him quickly.

“Hey,” he says, his brow furrowed, and Harry looks at him questioningly. “He’s not a joke.”

Harry doesn’t respond, only rolls his eyes a little and smirks some more. It doesn’t look so endearing when it’s aimed at Louis’ closest friend.

“He’s doing his job,” Louis continues, tries to keep his voice from getting hysterical, not even sure why he’s arguing this point in the first place. Louis is the first to admit that Stan can be a bit much, so why does it matter now? “He’s upholding the _law_.”

Louis puts what might be an unnecessary amount of emphasis on this final word, a dig at Harry and their current surroundings, a childish attempt to throw something back in his face.

To his credit, Harry still looks unperturbed. In fact, if anything he looks a little calmer now, a little more in control.

“Right,” he says, and now he’s leaning back into Louis’ space, getting closer as he speaks quietly. Louis curses his own gut, because the annoyance he feels is suddenly mixed with something darker, something more like want. “You go ask the good Officer Lucas about those _laws_ he’s upholding, let me know what he says.”

Harry takes another sip of his drink, leaving Louis’ space a little, looks around the room with vague interest. Louis is confused, trying to understand what Harry’s just implied, what accusations he might be throwing around, but he comes up with nothing. He’s still churning the words over in his brain when Harry speaks again.

“Just because something is law, doesn’t make it inherently right.”

They make eye contact again, and Louis is suddenly sure that this is it – this is the moment that Harry Styles kicks him out, realizes it was a mistake to invite Louis to this part of town, that he doesn’t belong at all.

But Harry’s eyes belie what Louis is thinking, because while he’s convinced himself that this bootlegger couldn’t possibly still want him here, Harry’s eyes rake over his face again, gentle, curious.

Louis watches as Harry’s gaze darts to their left quickly, then back to Louis, and he’s bracing himself for the polite dismissal when Harry breaks through the tension.

“Would you like to dance?”

“What?” The word is out of Louis’ mouth almost before Harry has finished asking, and he nearly misses the quiet _with me_ that Harry has tacked on. Harry looks down shyly for a moment, before smiling again and repeating himself, undeterred.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

Louis snaps his head in the direction of the stage, the music picking up tempo now, couples swinging each other around in the small space between the band and the tables. Louis can feel his heartbeat in his throat, can hear it pounding in his ears even above the noise, and he can’t look back at Harry. He can’t look him in the eye, because he can feel Harry’s stare in his periphery, and Louis’ secrets will be written all over his face, he just knows it.

If he looks Harry in the eye, the thoughts that have been plaguing Louis ever since he saw Harry’s Model T on that dark, deserted roadway will be clear as day. Louis’ not ready for that. Instead, he stares at the crowd, taking in the swish of the women’s dresses, the glint of golden cufflinks in the dim light. He can’t dance with Harry Styles. Not here, not in front of people like this, no matter how hidden or secret this place might be.

But Harry Styles doesn’t need to read it on Louis’ face, apparently, because the next thing Louis is aware of is that hot breath on his cheek again, that spicy smell in his nostrils, and the tickle of a whisper in his ear.

“The last thing anyone in this place would bat an eyelash at is two men dancing together.”

Louis feels his breath catch, has to gasp a little, tries to cover it up with a quick hand raking over his face. Harry hasn’t pulled back from how close he is, and Louis can feel every steady exhale, his skin tingling in the wake of each one.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Louis whispers, the only thing that comes to him in the moment. He can hardly believe that he’s even considering it, still watching the people in front of them, but not really seeing them, acutely aware of the man beside him and the warmth he can feel coming off Harry’s body.

“I’ll show you.” And there it is again, that breathy whisper, that confidence that sends a tingle all the way down Louis’ spine.

But this time, there’s more than just words. A hand appears in Louis’ line of sight, a large, steady hand reaching out for Louis’ like a promise – _I’ll show you, you’re safe with me_.

Louis hears nothing, not the music or the crowd, not the little voice reminding him this is a bad idea, only his thumping heartbeat as he watches his own arm come up slowly, his smaller, calloused hand gently reaching out for Harry’s.

“Okay,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes.

Harry releases a joyous laugh, Louis’ eyes finally snapping to his face, and the elation written there is overwhelming, bright enough to fill the whole room. Harry wastes no time, pulls Louis off his stool, stumbling through the crowd, directly into the fray of dancers in the front.

If Louis had time to think, he might worry about his feet, or the steps, about getting it right, but there’s none of that. There’s only Harry’s hands, strong and sure, guiding him around, one firmly on his lower back, the other taking Louis’ hand to spin him. They twirl and twist, Harry leading confidently, and Louis has no chance to stumble, can’t even think about missing a step, because Harry’s right there, strong and capable to hold him up.

Louis hears a laugh bubble up out of himself, his smile and crinkly eyes matching Harry’s, as they continue to make their way around the floor. The couples around them pay them no heed at all, except to call hello to Harry occasionally, to lend similar bright smiles to one another, and Louis gets caught up in the magic of it. The magic of this place, this music, this man.

The pulse of the music feels alive, makes the place feel like a living, breathing thing as the trumpets and trombone and saxophone blend together, weaving a trail for all of them to follow. Louis can’t believe how well he and Harry fit together, how Harry’s able to guide them without ceasing, and Louis feels like his feet are barely touching the floor, feels lighter than air.

The song reaches its climax, and Louis finds himself half off the ground as Harry dips him dramatically, Louis’ eyes going wide in surprise, Harry laughing elatedly again as they maintain eye contact. Louis giggles as he’s set upright once more, the song reaching its final notes, and Harry and Louis let go of each other to applaud the band along with the rest of the room.

He’s sweaty and breathless, adrenaline coursing through him, and he takes a moment to get his bearings, looking at the band, at the people milling around them, but not at Harry.

The notes of a new song ring out, slower this time, quieter, and the singer begins to croon something melancholy and sweet. The couples around Louis gravitate towards each other once again, embrace each other closely, start swaying in place.

Louis’ stuck, unsure what to do, where to look. But before he can turn away, or walk back towards the bar, or change his mind, he feels warm fingers close around his wrist, looks up to Harry’s face that has a questioning expression on it.

“One more?” He hears Harry say softly, hopefully, and Louis has to shut his eyes for a few seconds to ground himself.

He must nod his head, he must, because Harry is pulling him closer, unwrapping his fingers from around Louis’ wrist to grasp his hand gently again. His other hand comes around, rests low on Louis’ back, warm and solid and sure. Louis still can’t look up at him, so he looks at their feet, his hand coming up to touch Harry’s shoulder lightly.

“Hey,” Harry says, hushed, private, and Louis tilts his chin up so they’re making eye contact. “Don’t look at your feet, just look at me.”

He says it like an instruction, with a kind smile, like he’s doing nothing more than teaching Louis to dance. It makes it easier for Louis to nod again, keep his eyes locked on Harry’s, tell himself he’s just trying not to trip when he gazes into Harry’s face.

And just like before, Harry guides him around with a calm confidence. The weight of his hand on Louis’ lower back feels like its burning, and Louis has to bite his lip a few times to keep from making any noise.

After a minute or so, Louis tries to relax, tries to forget about his nerves, forget about the people around him, and just sink into the music. The notes are enchanting, minor chords and dissonance layered over the sweet sound of the singer’s voice, leaving something like sadness in Louis’ chest. He finds himself drifting even closer to Harry, their bodies touching now, chest to chest, and his eyes drift shut as he mindlessly rests his cheek on Harry’s shoulder.

They’re still moving, but slower now, like Harry feels the need to preserve this moment, to guide Louis around more gently, and Louis notices a flurry of butterflies inside himself. He hears every hitch in Harry’s breath, catalogues every instance that might indicate he’s not alone in these feelings. And for just a few moments, with his hand in Harry’s hand, his eyes closed and their bodies pressed close together, he’s able to imagine a life that isn’t his – a life away from the docks, away from the eyes of their town, where he’s someone who can dance with Harry Styles whenever he wants.

For a few moments, it feels like maybe it could be real.

The _crash_ of a glass breaking somewhere near them startles Louis out of the moment, and he jerks back from Harry’s shoulder like he’s been burned, releases Harry’s hand, glances around quickly, nervously.

People are watching them, he notices now. Panic fills his heart, feels like bile rising in his throat, and he shakes his head quickly, shaking himself out of whatever spell he was just under.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stutters, not looking Harry in the eye, backing away from him.

“Louis,” Harry’s deep voice sounds concerned, a note of pleading in it, but Louis can’t look up. He can’t face Harry’s eyes on him again, can’t be in this room for another minute.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I have to go.”

And with no other explanation, he turns and bolts, dodging his way through dancing couples, between small tables and the drunken chatter of the bar patrons. His eyes are blurring, filling up, and Louis curses himself for ever getting into this situation.

He yanks carelessly at the door he entered through, coming into the small anteroom where Liam still sits, book in his hand. Louis doesn’t spare him a glance, just throws himself at the locked door, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he tries to unlatch the four bolts in front of him.

“What the hell are you doing,” Liam asks, a threat in his voice, but Louis barely hears him. The last lock finally unclicks under his shaky fingers, and then he’s hurling himself out into the dark night, half running half stumbling up the stairs.

He sprints without thinking, without stopping, until he’s safe at home, away from Harry Styles and the prying eyes of strangers. And only when he’s securely locked away in his bedroom, the harsh silence of night surrounding him, does he let his hot, burning tears fall down his face.

\--

If Louis thought that everyone around him would suddenly be able to tell, would be able to read his secrets all over his face, he’s mistaken. He goes to work, and the monotony of the harbor and the backbreaking labor stays the same. Nothing changes at home either, but when he’s alone with just his thoughts, his mind travels back to that dance floor, to the feeling of Harry’s hands, warm on his back, and he has to train himself not to think about it.

It works about half the time.  

Stan catches up with him eventually, shows up to the dock and gives Louis a hard time about disappearing on him for a few days. Louis makes it into a joke, laughs it off, acts normal. He finds it comes pretty easily to him, pretending like nothing has changed.

They end up hanging out under the pier that same night, their favorite place when they were still just kids, where they would come and pretend like it was a hidden spot, a secret from everyone else. Louis sits up against one of the pillars, his toes in the sand, listening to the water lapping up around them. Stan busies himself scratching something into the old wood, carving his initials or a dirty word, Louis can’t be sure. He doesn’t really care to know.

Every time he looks at Stan now, he hears Harry’s deep voice in his ear – _ask him about those laws he’s upholding_ , the tone mocking and resentful. Louis narrows his eyes at Stan’s back, hears the scratching of the knife on the pier as he keeps chipping away, and he wonders what would happen if he just asked.

“Hey Stan,” he calls out, surprised that his tone sounds confident and sure. Stan ceases his scratching, turns around and grunts a response, but doesn’t come any closer to Louis. Instead of asking about bootleggers, Louis decides on a more covert route. “What made you wanna be a cop?”

It sounds strange coming out of Louis’ mouth, and he almost cringes when he hears it, a loaded question between two people who’ve known each other forever. They don’t ask each other questions like that, and Louis can tell that Stan notices because his brow furrows deeper, and he turns away from the place where he was leaving his mark on his pier, faces Louis with his arms crossed in front of him.

“What?”

Louis can tell by his tone that it was the wrong question to ask. It was too out of the ordinary, too personal, which they just don’t do. He tries to quickly amend it.

“I mean,” he starts, running his fingers through his hair and avoiding his gaze. “What do you like about it? I’ve been thinking about it lately, wondering if maybe a career change is in my future.”

His voice gets quieter at the end as the lie falls easily from his lips, and there’s no way Stan is going to fall for it. Anybody who knows Louis even halfway knows he’d never trade the harbor for the law.

But maybe Stan doesn’t know Louis half as well as he thinks he does, because he doesn’t question it, walks toward Louis with excitement in his voice.

“Yeah? Really?”

Louis goes with it. Nods his head, “Mhm, yeah, just- what can you tell me about it?”

Stan plops himself down in the sand near Louis, off to his left, starts blathering on about honor and glory and the feeling of power of being the law. It’s a lot of the stuff that Louis expected, and he’s grateful Stan’s not sitting in front of him because he can gaze at the water and tune him out a little, think about how to approach the subject more directly.

He’s starting to think Harry was wrong, starting to think Stan really is just a boring, upstanding cop. But then he hears something that makes his head snap up in Stan’s direction, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

“There’s certain advantages too, certain _monetary_ advantages.”

Stan says it like a secret, like there’s something behind that phrase, and Louis flashes back to the night he met Harry, to Stan saying they earned their meager wages respectfully.

“What do you mean?” Louis’ voice is thick in his throat, and he clears it after he asks, but Stan doesn’t notice anything amiss.

He gets a sheepish look on his face, a smile like he’s a child who’s broken a rule but knows he’ll get away with it.

“Well,” he says, and Louis’ eyes are stuck on him now, watching Stan run his fingers through the sand around him, watching him think about how to phrase his answer. “All’s I mean is, it pays to be in a position of power around this town.”

His smirk is devilish now, a little menacing, and Louis can’t hold back anymore.

“Like,” he hesitates, lowers his voice a little. “Like bribes?”

Stan laughs, a harsh sound in the quiet evening, and Louis winces a little.

“Don’t sound so scandalized.” He’s mocking Louis now, and Louis tries to ignore the instincts that tell him to run away. “Everybody does it.”

“But what about,” Louis’ voice is coming out strangled now, and he tries to take a deep breath, to remind himself Stan doesn’t know his motives for this conversation. “What about all that stuff you told me about bootleggers? Scourge on society?” He says it like a _remember, you promised,_  feels childish in his arguments, like Stan’s word could have meant something in the first place.

“Ugh,” Stan spits out, disgusted suddenly. “I don’t care about them when they’re minding their own business, when they acknowledge the status quo.”

Louis’ head is spinning, trying to keep up, and dread is building in his gut.

“But when they walk around this town like they fucking own it,” Stan grits out, angry, shaking his head. “Like Styles. That fucking asshole. He doesn’t respect the law like he should. People like him ruin it for everyone.”

Louis’ heart seizes up, a palpable pain in his chest at the mention of Harry’s name. He tries to keep still, tries not to react visibly.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, and it’s quiet, scared.

Stan doesn’t seem to notice Louis’ change in demeanor, barrels on in his hatred.

“For a long time, there was an unspoken agreement between us and them. They scratch our back, we scratch theirs, ya know?” Louis keeps looking on in horror, can’t believe his ears as Stan continues. “But Styles starts to decide that they don’t need to do that anymore, starts to convince the Payne family that bribes aren’t _necessary_.” He throws up air quotes around the word, says it with such a malicious tone that Louis recoils a little.

“Fucking asshole,” he finishes, confident in his position, sounding sure that Louis will understand. “I’m gonna get him though, it’s only a matter of time.”

Louis’ heart seizes up again, this time in fear for Harry instead of himself. He reminds himself quickly to go along with it, to not let Stan really see him, so he nods and grunts his approval, tries to listen as Stan goes back to talking about the merits of police work.

He stares at the water in front of them, his mind going over everything he’s just heard Stan say, his thoughts returning to Harry over and over. Anger and confusion roll through, mixed with a legitimate amount of alarm for Harry’s safety, although he doesn’t allow himself to think about the implications of that. Instead, he tries to reconcile the person he thought Stan was with the man who sits next to him now.

It feels almost impossible.

He’s only shaken out of his angry, anxious thoughts when he hears Stan address him finally, still prattling on uninterrupted.

“I’ll put in a good word for you at the station,” he says, clapping a hand on Louis’ shoulder and making him jump, reminding him of the lie he told Stan about wanting to switch jobs. He says it so good naturedly, so unaffected, like he hasn’t just admitted to Louis that he’s a dirty cop.

Louis clears his throat, stumbles over another lie.

“Uhh, yeah,” he says, not able to look Stan in the face anymore. “That would be great.”

They’re both silent again, and Louis listens as the water from the rising tide slaps against the weathered wood, rhythmic and loud in the quiet space.

\--

There’s never a moment of peace in Louis’ house. Nine people occupying close quarters, all clambering over each other for attention, for room to breathe, and more often than not it turns into a madhouse. Louis wouldn’t have it any other way.

What he would change, if he could, is the constant anxiety his mom and stepdad face trying to keep food on the table for the lot of them.

It’s why Louis toils away day in and out at the harbor, scraping by a meager existence. He’s got to help keep his six younger siblings fed.

On this particular Friday evening, the chaos of their house is like a storm swirling around them, the younger ones yelling for attention and the older ones trying to soothe them, Louis’ parents scrambling to figure out what to make for dinner

“Did you get paid today darling?” His mother Jay asks him, a hint of hesitation in her voice.

“Next week,” Louis offers, simply, quietly. He’s disappointed in himself, like he could help the fact that he only gets paid every other week, but his mother brushes him off, reassures him with a pat on the cheek as she walks by him towards the kitchen.

“It’s alright my love, we’ll figure it out.” She says this so often that Louis finds himself mouthing the next words along with her, smiling to himself. “We always do.”

The knock at the door is almost missed over the sounds of Doris and Ernie running through the house screaming. It’s only noticed because Lottie is chasing them quickly, yells over her shoulder “Door!” and Louis quickly makes his way to the front of the house to see who it could be.

His eyes widen in surprise as he swings it open quickly, taking in the delivery truck, the man standing at their door with a large box in his hands, three more boxes behind him, a few paper bags on the stoop.

“Tomlinson residence?” He asks, curt and official.

“Um, yes,” Louis supplies, a question in his voice.

“Where should I put these?” The man is already pushing his way into the house, and Louis glances quickly into the box, sees a pile of groceries, eggs and bread and cheese, piled neatly into stacks.

“Umm,” Louis mutters again, watching as the man hurries past him towards the kitchen, placing the box on the table and returning quickly for the others. Louis finally regains some composure, bends down to help the man take the packages inside, enough groceries for at least a week as far as he can tell.

“Sign here,” the man says, offering a clipboard towards Louis, who looks down at it in confusion. The name of the grocer is at the top, with an itemized list of the delivery underneath, and Louis scans quickly – glimpses of meats and produce along with the things he already saw.

“Who sent this,” Louis asks, signing haphazardly with the pen he’s offered. The man snatches the clipboard back hastily, doesn’t give Louis a chance to examine it further.

“They don’t tell me that,” the man says, not unkindly, but hurried, like he’s impatient. “Got one more thing for you too, something extra.”

He runs out to his delivery truck, parked in front of the house with the logo painted on the side, and Louis watches curiously as he makes his way to the passenger side door and returns with a large, white box in his hands.

“What’s-” Louis begins, but the man cuts him off before he can finish

“Don’t know what’s inside, just doing my job sir.”

And without so much as a goodbye, the man turns around and jogs to his truck, quickly settling himself in the driver’s seat and puttering off down the road without a glance in Louis’ direction.

He’s left standing on the front porch holding the box, his brow furrowed as he looks around the street in front of him, searching for something that’s not there.

_Could this be from- would it-_

Louis doesn’t let himself hold on to any one thought, coming back inside the house and shutting the door behind him, his siblings already converging on the groceries, exclaiming loudly over the bounty in front of them. Their mother tries to corral the process, asking them for help putting it away, but Louis ignores all of it.

He doesn’t even stop to ask if he’s needed, simply makes his way to the back of his house where his bedroom is located, and closes the door firmly behind him, sets the box on top of his bed.

He stares at it for a moment, unsure whether or not to open it.

He’s wracking his brain for what it could be, who it could be from, but he keeps coming back to the same conclusion, the same feeling of a warm hand on his lower back, of electricity in his blood, and he tries not to get too excited.

Taking a deep breath, he finds the edges of the lid, lifting it gently with nervous fingers as sunlight streaks in from his small window, casting golden rays over the top of the pristine white box.

He gasps as he sees the tuxedo laying neatly inside, reaches out to touch the crisp lapels, and gently grazes the gold cufflinks placed on top. His eyes are wide as he takes in everything, the untouched white shirt, the silky black material of the jacket.

It takes him a moment to notice the card, placed delicately to the side of the box, and he grabs it instantly, his pulse climbing.

His eyes scan it quickly, the delicate, black script standing out boldly against the glossy white of the card.

It’s an invitation, cordially inviting the reader to a party scheduled for that day, that very night.

Louis gulps as he takes in the address, somewhere across town, and the monogram printed at the very top:

_HS_

A quiet knock at his door startles him, and he drops the card back into the box, turning around to see Jay poking her head into his room

“Lou?” She asks, a cautious look on her face.

He tries to stand in front of the box, hiding it from view, but she catches a glimpse of it easily, her eyebrows raising in surprise. She looks back at Louis and sighs, sits down in the chair that’s in the corner of Louis’ room, levels him with a serious look, and says, “I think we should talk.”

He can only nod his head and sit down on his bed, shifting the box behind him a bit, not able to meet her eyes just yet.

“Who are the groceries from?” So they’re just getting into it then. No preface, no dancing around the issue.

Louis sighs, rakes a hand through his hair and glances up. His mother’s eyes are full of concern, but they’re soft, not accusatory.

“You can tell me Lou,” she says, her voice dripping with that motherly tone Louis knows so well. “It’s okay, whatever it is. It’s okay.”

“I, uhh,” Louis tries to start, pausing to figure out how to word it. He doesn’t know if her motherly concern and love covers things like ‘strange friendship with a criminal’. He tries again. “I have this… friend.”

He puts so much space between the words, a long hesitation, that he can see the transformation on his mother’s face. The confusion, the furrowed brow, the worry.

“Friend,” she repeats, putting no inflection in her voice to indicate what she’s thinking.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, nodding his head a little. He clasps his hands on his lap, stares at them for a minute. “He must have sent the groceries.” He says it quietly, almost inaudible, but Jay must catch it because she makes a noise of understanding

“Well that was very generous of this,” she pauses here, putting a heavy emphasis on the silence to mimic Louis. “Friend.”

It makes Louis smile despite himself. He tries to school it, tries to keep his face neutral, but the thought of Harry sending groceries to his family makes his stomach flip over, makes his face feel warmer. He thinks again about the tuxedo sitting in the box behind him, has to keep himself from turning his head to stare at it again.

“Yeah,” Louis says, agreeing with her. “I just- I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” She says it so easily, like she already sees an answer that Louis just can’t figure out, and it frustrates him a bit.

“I mean,” he says, stopping himself before he blurts out the wrong thing. He takes a breath, collects his thoughts, starts again. “I mean, me and this friend. We’re- we’re different.”

“Different how?” When he looks up, she’s still watching him cautiously, like he might bolt. It’s not unwarranted. Louis feels jittery and unsure.

“We just- we live very different lives,” he says with a shrug, hoping that Jay will understand what’s behind the words, what he’s really trying to say.

“I see,” she says, nodding her head, placing her elbows on her knees and leaning towards Louis, chin resting on her clasped hands. “And that’s- not something you’re okay with?”

They’re both talking in fits and starts, including heavy pauses between words, loading their statements with unspoken questions and answers.

“I don’t know,” Louis says truthfully, biting on his nail a little, looking at the floor. He adds quietly, “Stan says I should stay away from him.”

It’s the closest Louis’ gotten to revealing the whole truth so far, and she makes another noise of clarity. Louis watches as she sits up straight again, places her hands in her lap, looks authoritative.

“Ah,” she says simply. “Well, I don’t know much about this _friend_ , but I know that if someone like Stan has told you that, I can see why you’re conflicted.”

Louis raises and eyebrow in question, waits for her to continue.

“We both know Stan can be a bit of an idiot.”

Louis’ jaw drops open, and Jay laughs at his reaction. He breaks into a smile after few seconds, disbelieving that he’s heard his mother use those words.

“You know I’m not wrong,” she says, and Louis smirks at her, still not speaking. “And I think you also know, because I know you’re a smart man, that just because someone throws their weight around, or the weight of what they stand for, doesn’t always make them right.”

It amazes Louis, even now, even after having experienced his mother’s wisdom for so many years, how quick she is on the uptake. He can’t help but hear the words Harry shared with him run through his head, about something being the law not making it right. It’s confusing and comforting all at the same time.

“Someone who sends groceries to a family that needs them, without expecting anything in return,” she says, and Louis looks up at her, makes eye contact, doesn’t look away. “That’s a good person.”

She says it with authority, with assured confidence, and Louis finds himself thinking hopefully _yes, he’s good, he’s so good_ , before he shakes himself out of it, tries to focus on the conversation at hand.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” she continues, not at all concerned that Louis hasn’t spoken much, “that he also sent that incredible tuxedo there.”

Louis flushes and glances behind him, the box still open on his bed, the silky, black fabric visible from where she sits.

“Some kind of invitation somewhere?” She asks, and Louis just nods a little in confirmation.

“Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” he says immediately, feeling no need to clarify, feeling safe in the presence of his mom, knowing she understands so much already.

“What’s stopping you?” she asks, a note of disbelief in her voice, like she can’t believe Louis would even think about turning down the offer. “Is it this Stan business, because weren’t you listening when I just said-”

“I ran away,” Louis interrupts her, feeling ashamed at his behavior, embarrassed at the memory. He continues in almost a whisper. “Last time I saw him I- I ran away.”

“Why did you run, Lou?” His mother’s voice is gentle, coaxing, and even though Louis’ not saying everything he wants to, he still feels like his mom understands.

He looks at her briefly, looks back down at his lap, and says simply, “People could see.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes then, and enough time passes that Louis glances up, sees her staring off into space, not looking at Louis anymore. She’s still looking away when she speaks again.

“Do you remember when you were little? And we would play hide and seek around the house?” Louis makes a noise of affirmation, a quiet _mhm_ , and she continues. “Sometimes you’d stay in one spot for so long, I’d have to tell you that the game was over, because I just couldn’t find you. And you’d come out laughing and triumphant, because it was clear you had won.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, but is transfixed as she looks off to the side of him, reminiscing.

She looks back at him as she says, “You’ve always been really good at that.”

“At what?”

“Hiding.”

The single word rings out in the quiet room, and Louis feels his gut drop, sees his vision blur without his permission, unshed tears filling his eyes. It seems she doesn’t expect him to answer, because she continues, her voice full of something that sounds like love.

“I know that it can be scary,” she says, her voice soothing and rhythmic, “to think about people seeing you. But Lou,” she stops here and laughs a little, a small chuckle that sounds warm. “The people who love you, they don’t care about any of that.”

She doesn’t clarify what she means, but she doesn’t have to. A single tear falls down Louis’ face and he swipes at it quickly, trying not to look away as she continues.

“You’re only gonna hurt yourself if you keep hiding.” She gets up from her chair then, crosses the small space between them, and kneels by Louis’ bed, places a soft hand on his knee and the other under his chin. “Maybe this friend of yours wants to see you fully, too.”

Louis can’t look down when she’s holding his chin like this, but that’s his instinct. He swallows thickly and asks with a gravelly voice, “What if he doesn’t like what he sees?”

“Baby,” she says, shaking her head slightly, holding his gaze with a look of fierce determination. “It’s not possible.”

More tears spill out, but Louis smiles through them, the warmth he feels in him now bolstering him, making him feel safer. He nods his head a little, and Jay gives him a bright smile, squeezing his chin slightly before releasing her hold on him. She stands up a little unsteadily, stretching out her back as she does so.

“Well,” she says brightly, “I think it’s time for me to go whip something up with these new groceries. Have a good night, love.”

And with a wink in Louis’ direction, she hurries out the door, leaving Louis to himself.

He can hear the hustle and bustle of his family beyond his door, the happy murmurings of controlled chaos, and he smiles. He glances over his shoulder, eyes the tuxedo, and bites his lip. Something about his mother’s reassurance, the promise that everything would be okay, shifts something in him. Instead of anxiety, he feels a quiet sort of calm wash over him.

Something that feels like maybe it’s all going to be alright.

And then the decision is made, just like that. Louis hops off the bed and starts to feel a different sort of nerves set in – nerves of excitement and anticipation, the mystery of what lies ahead of him.

He showers and dresses quickly, the anticipation in his gut building, his nerves causing his hands to shake as he buttons up the delicate white shirt Harry’s sent him. He almost doesn’t recognize himself when he finally gazes in the mirror hanging on his wall, not used to seeing someone so polished staring back.

It’s only when he’s calling goodbye to his family and rushing out the door that he stops to wonder how he’s going to get to the address on this card.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, though, as he sees a shiny, black Model T sitting in front of his house. It brings him up short, and he swivels his head around, as if he’s going to see the owner standing there with an explanation.

Instead, a driver hops out, short and stocky with a cap on his head and a cigar wedged between his teeth.

“Mr. Tomlinson?” he calls, speaking around the thick cigar, and Louis just nods his head. “I’m here to take you to Mr. Styles’ house.”

Louis gut swoops and his cheeks redden at the grand gesture. Harry sent him a chauffeured car to his house, and he’s standing on his own lawn in a brand new tuxedo. It all feels strange and wonderful at the same time.

“Well?” The driver seems impatient, and Louis wants to laugh at his demeanor, not at all the picture of professionalism that he would expect, but he just shrugs to himself and makes his way to the back door, sliding onto the leather seat easily.

The driver wastes no time, speeding through town like he’s got a deadline, and Louis feels a little dizzy watching the houses and trees whiz by in a colorful blur.

About twenty minutes pass, and they’re well outside the town limits, driving through roads that Louis’ never been on before, the neat houses of his town giving way to wild trees and forests. He didn’t know anyone lived out this way, doesn’t think it’s possible for there to be an area of his town he’s never heard of, but soon enough they’re slowing down, pulling into a winding driveway surrounded by trees, and Louis’ heartrate picks up.

He has to stop himself from audibly gasping when the house comes into view. It’s bigger than any house he’s ever seen before, the driveway looping around in a cobblestone path, creating a full circle that has a fountain sitting in the middle of it, water gently cascading down. There’s already other cars and people milling about, spilling out of the front door, and Louis can tell even from his seat inside the Model T that it’s a loud, raucous party, people laughing and music playing from inside.

The car comes to a stop right in front of the steps that lead to the front door, and Louis feels frozen for a few seconds before he hears a slight cough from the driver, a reminder to get out.

He shakes himself out of it, and whispers a quiet “Uhh, thank you” to the man before stepping onto the cobblestone, craning his neck upwards to take in as much of the house as he can.

He makes his way up the stairs, sidestepping people who are congregating together, smoking and laughing, and his belly fills up with nervous butterflies. He looks the part at least, fitting in easily in his new tux, but he’s still scared that something about him will give him away – something will make it easy for the people here to tell that he might not belong.

As he steps over the threshold, his eyes dart around taking in everything in front of him.

The house has a large, grand foyer that gives way to an enormous staircase, the second floor visible even from here. The tiled floor is filled with people, drinking and chatting, music filling the space from an unknown location. Louis can see from where he stands how big the house must be, how far back it must span, and he feels a little overwhelmed at the sight of it.

Large glass doors lead outside to multiple patio areas, and they’re packed too, not a single space of the downstairs left unfilled. Louis swallows nervously and glances around, looking for any signs of Harry. His eyes catch on one of the patios, large double doors swung open wide so the summer air blows in along with the noises of the guests. He recognizes both Niall and Liam, adorned in tuxedos, holding court – a group of party goers watch transfixed as they tell a story that Louis can’t hear, but he smiles as the crowd laughs appreciatively at whatever Niall’s just said. Liam seems to be interjecting a lot, and they both take long swigs of tall drinks every so often, the picture of relaxed frivolity.

Louis makes his way further into the foyer, skirting by people as they move quickly around him, craning his neck every chance he gets to try and find the one person he can’t stop thinking about.

“Looking for someone?” A deep voice sounds in his ear, and he turns quickly, smiling already at the sight of Harry Styles in front of him. He feels like his breath gets taken away, and he can’t respond for a second, because Harry is a vision in his tux – the picture of elegance, unfairly gorgeous, and Louis is surprised at how it makes him feel.

“You look amazing,” Harry says, before Louis even has a chance to say hello, and Louis flushes. He tugs at his collar a little, looking off to the side, and nods his head slightly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, unsure how to take the compliment. He wants to dive into thanking Harry for the tux, for the groceries, but Harry looks away then at a passing waiter and grabs two flutes of champagne.

“Will you have a drink with me?”

Louis can only nod and follow as Harry turns to lead him off to a corner, the one area that seems to still have some free space, everywhere else in the massive house packed to the gills with boisterous people.

Being in the corner with Harry feels like being in their own little bubble again, like it felt at the bar, and Louis is suddenly acutely aware of how close together they’re standing, how he’s staring into Harry’s eyes.

“So uhh,” Harry begins, and it startles Louis a little, makes him back up slightly. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Louis can feel the confused look on his face, his brow furrowed as he immediately asks, “For what?”

Harry looks guilty, hesitant, as he scratches at the back of his neck.

“For making you uncomfortable at the club.”

Louis is taken aback for a moment, surprised that Harry would feel the need to apologize. All this time Louis thought he was the one who needed to say he was sorry, for making a fool of himself. But Harry continues.

“I was hoping you would come tonight, Louis. I just,” he pauses, and it looks like he was going to say something, but stops himself. He starts again. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

Something about Louis’ conversation with Jay earlier bolsters him, takes away some of the fear he’s felt the times he and Harry have interacted previously. He feels a little playful as he responds, and he smiles at Harry.

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to apologize, Harry Styles.”

Harry looks up at Louis from where his eyes were trained on the ground, and he looks taken aback but delighted, eager to banter back with Louis. He bites his lip, and Louis speaks again.

“A brand new tux and a week’s worth of groceries? A pretty expensive apology, I’d say.” Harry’s watching him with a half-smile on his face, and he looks down at the ground again briefly, before looking up and shrugging.

“Alright,” he admits. “I just wanted the chance to see you again.”

Hearing it, even though Louis suspected that was the truth, makes his stomach flip over, and his smile grows even bigger. For a moment, they’re just standing there looking at each other, searching each other’s faces without speaking, and Louis thinks he could spend all night like that.

After what feels like a few long minutes, Louis looks down at the ground again and bites his lip, then looks back up at Harry and says, “Thank you for the groceries.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to. Harry wouldn’t have sent them in the first place if he didn’t already knew what they meant to Louis and his family.

Harry’s face adopts a softer expression, caring, not pitying like Louis sometimes worries about when it comes to these matters.

“Of course,” Harry says, and he places a hand on Louis’ shoulder, rubs gently for just a second before dropping it. “I know that my job isn’t the most upstanding.”

He says this sort of self-deprecatingly, and this is the first time Louis’ seen him look at all doubtful about his line of work. “But it’s being able to do things like that for people who really deserve it that make it worth it in the end.”

Louis feels his gut tighten at Harry’s words – the contradiction of what Harry does mixing with the sweet and caring person in front of him.

“You’re sort of a mystery, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and Harry looks surprised before he laughs loudly.  
  
“Am I?”  
  
Louis nods his head a little.  
  
“A very interesting, intriguing mystery.”

That makes Harry’s smile turn into something more private, more of a smirk.

“I could say the same about you, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says. Louis raises one eyebrow at him in question. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

Louis laughs a little through his nose, a barely there exhale. He feels brave, and reaches out to touch Harry’s waist gently.

“I think I’m doing the same thing.”

He drops his hand after a minute, but he can still feel where it tingles, even though he did nothing more than rub the fabric of Harry’s tuxedo a little. They spend another minute just looking at each other then, soft, searching expressions on both their faces. The party is still loud around them, the noise increasing as people get steadily drunker.

It still feels like they’re in a bubble, though. Safe and alone with just each other.

Louis hears a female’s voice start singing, and he looks to his left quickly where he notices that a makeshift stage has been set up in the middle of the foyer, and people are beginning to gather around in front of it. It looks like the same singer from the club, her smooth voice starting to croon a mid-tempo song that Louis thinks he’s heard before. It’s a smaller band than last time, just a couple musicians behind her accompanying, but people are excited – clapping their hands and dancing.

Louis wonders if Harry will ask him to dance again. He thinks back quickly to the time when he can remember Harry’s hand low on his back, and tells himself that this time he won’t run away, this time he’ll stay as long as Harry will have him.

“Would you like a tour?” Harry asks instead, and Louis looks back at him to find him still searching Louis’ face with a look of interest.

Louis’ agreeing before he even realizes it, and Harry guides him with a hand on the small of his back around the groups of people gathering towards the stage. Louis notices Niall and Liam are inside now, away from the patio, but they’re still holding court – laughing and telling jokes, and it makes Louis smile.

“They seem to be very popular,” Louis comments, and Harry glances in the direction of his friends. When he realizes who Louis’ talking about, he laughs warmly.

“No two better people in the world,” Harry says plainly. They slip through a side door, one that Louis hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly they’re in a quieter hallway, devoid of any people. The noise from the party now sounds muffled behind the closed door.

“Little easier to talk when we’re away from the party,” Harry says, and Louis feels nerves bubble in his gut. This feels like the first time they’ve really been alone with each other, not surrounded by people and noise and chaos. Before Louis can get too nervous, though, Harry is grasping his hand gently and pulling him along down the hallway, showing him around the places that the party hasn’t reached yet.

He walks him into a grand library, floor to ceiling shelves filled with books, and even a ladder to reach the topmost ones. Louis’ eyes go wide, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many books in one place outside of a library.

“Have you read all these?”

Harry laughs a little.

“No, I haven’t honestly.”

It makes Louis chuckle, but he also feels something like relief, because the idea that Harry has read all of these books overwhelms him a little.

“No, these are just things I’ve collected along the way. Some of them were gifts.” Louis runs a finger over the spines of some of the books in front of him, leather bound tomes and short, dingy paperbacks. Probably more books than Louis could ever read in a lifetime, maybe in two lifetimes. Harry doesn’t sound like he’s bragging when he talks about them, either. He sounds like he’s genuinely interested in the people that gave him these books, and it makes Louis feel warm inside.

They walk slowly through the house, and the noises of the party get quieter and quieter the farther they get. There’s room after room of grand things, but it still doesn’t feel like Harry’s trying to impress Louis, but rather just to be with him.

He asks Louis about his family, about his childhood growing up in the small town here. Louis learns that Harry and the Payne family came here a few years ago, and Harry talks a little about the city they grew up in a few hours away. It makes Louis feel normal almost, strolling around this mansion with Harry Styles, listening to his slow, syrupy voice tell stories about his childhood.

About an hour passes before Louis notices that they’re still wandering the house, finding new spaces to look at. They’ve been slowing their pace, stopping whenever they can, sharing gentle touches that could be coincidence. Louis’ skin feels like it’s buzzing with electricity underneath it, the excitement of what’s happening between him and Harry. And even though they’re just talking, he still feels like something magical could happen.

Finally, when they reach the last room, Harry opens a small door with a spiral staircase behind it.

“Let’s go the back way,” he says, implying what Louis already feels – that neither of them are ready to go back to the party yet, they don’t want to subject themselves to the noise and the crowds, they want to stay with each other a little while longer. It makes Louis feel like his stomach is in knots with anticipation.

Louis climbs down carefully behind Harry, and they find themselves in a back room of the kitchen. Louis can hear people just beyond the door chatting, talking about the party, the food, the drinks. He hopes desperately that they’re not going to reenter the fray.

Luckily, Harry turns behind them to another door, one that Louis wouldn’t have noticed on his own, and he opens it to reveal an exit to the outside. Suddenly Louis finds himself in a quiet garden, off to the side of the house that no one from the party has found yet. Harry shuts the door behind them, and gestures for Louis to make his way further outside.

Louis looks up and can see the stars shimmering in the summer night sky, can hear the tinkling of music from the party, but only just. The garden is only illuminated by the bright moon in the sky at this point, but he can see how well kept it is, how beautiful, how many different flowers there must be. A small fountain sits in the center, a miniature copy of the one that graces the driveway.

It’s only when he turns and finds Harry already standing close to him, looking down at him, that he gets nervous again.

“Your house is beautiful,” he whispers, but only because he can’t think of anything else to say that won’t give him away. He doesn’t want to give away too much, worries that if he starts talking he won’t stop until he admits to Harry what he’s feeling.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, and the moment between them feels fragile. “I’m glad you came, Louis.”

It sounds so honest and real, Louis almost can’t believe it.

“Our lives,” Louis starts, but he stops for a second and looks around. He thinks about what he’s going to say, and clears his throat. Harry’s looking at him with such a sincere look of curiosity, though, that he feels safe to continue. “Our lives are very different.”

“So?” Harry asks, and Louis wants to laugh at his candor, at the ways that he makes it seem so insignificant – the differences between them.

“What makes you want to figure me out?” Louis asks, referencing what Harry said earlier. “What could I possibly bring that you don’t already have? Seems like you have everything.” He adds this last part on quietly, looking down at the ground, and it comes out more vulnerable than he expected.

He feels a gentle hand on his chin, and Harry tilts his face up to look at him.

“There’s something about you, Louis,” Harry says. “You’re genuine, and you’re kind.” Harry glances to the side for a second, like he’s examining the garden, but he looks lost in thought.

“And when you’re like me,” he continues, still looking off in the distance. “And you exist in a world of hidden things and secrets, sometimes all you want is something that feels real, something that’s out in the open.” Harry looks back at Louis, stares him in the eye as he speaks again. “Sometimes you just crave things that are good. And you, Louis Tomlinson, are good.”

Louis’ heart soars at the words, even as his brain tells him that they might not be true, he wants them to be. He wants to be good for Harry Styles, he wants to be something real and pure for someone.

“You’re good too,” Louis whispers.

It makes Harry’s eyes shine, makes them well up with tears that Louis’ not sure he could explain.

For a moment they stand there like that, and Louis finds himself thinking he could stay there forever, wishes that he could. But then Harry’s removing his hand and walking away from him a little bit, mentioning something about growing flowers in this heat. Louis’ head is spinning, he can’t pay attention. Before he knows it, he’s speaking without thinking.

“Stan told me-” he begins, but he stops short because Harry swings his neck to look at him, and Louis worries that bringing up Stan in this moment is a bad idea. But Louis can’t not ask, he can’t not, he has to know, so he continues. “He said, um, he said something about you.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things about me,” Harry says. He doesn’t sound cold or harsh like he has before, but a little emotionless, monotone, waiting for Louis to get to the point.

“He, uhh,” Louis’s nervous now, and he doesn’t know why. Surely what Stan said was true, even if it came out cruel and hateful, there’s some truth to it. _Please let there be some truth to it_ , Louis thinks, _please don’t let me be alone_. “He said that you were- I mean, that you like-”

“That I’m gay,” Harry says, once again using that simple, straightforward tone that takes Louis aback. He can’t do anything but nod and watch as Harry walks closer to him with a thoughtful look on his face.

“He’s not wrong,” Harry admits, and he sounds a little sad when he says it. There’s something in his voice that makes Louis want to ask him everything, learn everything about him, about his past and what happened to him. But he just settles for listening as Harry keeps talking.

“I always knew I was different,” Harry muses. “It wasn’t just the family situation, or living with the Payne’s when my family couldn’t take care of me.” Harry’s still moving closer to Louis, slowly, carefully, and Louis feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. Harry’s got this even sound to his voice, controlled, captivating, and Louis feels like he can’t catch his breath as he listens intently.

“I’ve always been different. But Liam and his parents, they never made me feel like I was weird. I remember telling Liam after I’d gone on my first date with a girl in high school, that it wasn’t how everyone said it would be. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but things just felt… different.”

Louis’ gut tightens, and he gets flashbacks of his own time in high school, being with a girl at a Friday night pep rally and putting his arm around her. Feeling the cold fall air around them, and thinking that this should feel better than it did – that it should feel more real, but it just felt fake. Knowing that it should feel like _something_ , but it just felt like he was putting on for his friends. And even back then, before he knew what it meant, he knew he had to hide it.

He can’t help but make the comparison to his and Harry’s stories, and while it makes him feel a deep sort of sadness in his gut, it also lights a spark of hope. Something for the first time in his life that makes him feel like someone knows exactly what he was going through before he even said it.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Harry says, and Louis watches as Harry gets closer still, keeping eye contact. The things that Louis’ been feeling, the tightness in his gut, the nervousness, they’re exploding now, pulsing, and he can feel the adrenaline. Harry’s coming closer to him, and he can’t stop it, and he’s saying these things like _I’m not ashamed of who I am_.

It’s overwhelming.

Something about the garden, and the party, and Harry make Louis feel something that’s akin to bravery, so he whispers “I’m trying not to be too.”

And maybe Harry was just waiting for that, maybe he was just waiting for confirmation from Louis, because suddenly he’s close enough that Louis can see the stubble on his upper lip, can smell the fruity warmth of his breath from the drinks he had earlier. Louis’ heart feels like it’s in his throat as Harry leans down, closer and closer.

Before, Louis would have run. This would be the point that he would turn around and bolt, but he’s not going to do that anymore.

And just as Harry’s close enough that Louis can count the tiny freckles on his face, Harry even whispers to him, “Please don’t run away.”

Louis barely has time to murmur, “I won’t” before Harry’s lips are on his, warm and solid.

Louis’ exploding. He must be exploding, this must be what it feels like to come apart, because he’s never felt anything like this before. Even though it’s just the gentle touch of lips, Louis feels like everything’s unraveling and being put back together the way it’s supposed to be. His skin feels like it’s burning, igniting all over, and when Harry reaches around and gently holds him by the waist, Louis gasps into his mouth, and Harry swallows the noise eagerly. Louis’ hands come up to the side of Harry’s face, and he cups his cheeks gently, keeping him close.

He feels Harry’s tongue gently prod at the seam of his lips, and Louis can’t help but groan before opening up. Louis’ not sure how long they spend trading kisses in the dark garden, but he knows that it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, that he never wants it to be over.

Eventually his mouth is numb and chapped from the kisses they’ve traded, but his heart feels lighter than it has maybe ever. In between kisses they exchange smiles, and laughs, and soft touches, and Louis feels like even if he died right now it would be the best way in the world to go – being held by Harry Styles in a quiet garden at night.

Eventually they’re far enough apart that they’re just holding onto each other, looking at each other with content expressions on their faces.

Harry asks quietly, “Do you want to go back to the party?”

Louis’ brain screams _No, I want to stay here with you forever_ , but the logical side of him has him nodding his head, and Harry smiles. He takes his hand and intertwines their fingers tightly. It makes Louis happy to know that just because they’re leaving the garden, Harry isn’t going to let go of him, isn’t going to let Louis get too far away, and they walk back together hand in hand.

This time Louis isn’t as afraid that people will see them, and he isn’t scared to rejoin the groups of people who are now causing quite a drunken ruckus. The foyer and patios are still filled, the singer performing an up tempo number that people are dancing to together. Louis starts to notice as he looks around with curious eyes the different types of people that surround Harry Styles’ life. He’s surprised to see, along with the men and women dancing together, women sitting on other women’s laps, and men holding hands throughout the crowd.

He also sees, as he continues to scan the room, Liam crowded up close to a man with dark skin and hair, whispering intimately into his ear. Louis raises his eyebrows at it, but doesn’t say anything, watches them for just a moment. The man that Liam is talking to, who Louis thinks is incredibly beautiful and mysterious looking, smiles at whatever Liam’s just told him, then leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

It surprises Louis to be surrounded by people who seem like they aren’t afraid of anything, but it also makes him feel safer, less frightened of what could happen to him here.

He finally allows himself to just let go, allows Harry to guide him around the party, introducing him to friends and happy party goers, everyone clambering to get Harry’s attention. Nobody has his attention like Louis does though, and he spends the entire time holding his hand, or touching his arm, whispering to him in his ear, always close enough to touch. It makes Louis feel special and wanted, something he’s not sure he’s ever felt before, and he swears he’s already addicted to the feeling.

The party only winds down once it’s late, so late into the night, people calling jovial goodbyes to Harry as he tries to corral the last of the revelers into their chauffeured cars to get home. He tells Louis he’s got a car to get him home safely in, and they walk out of the house together hand in hand, the front steps leading down to the driveway finally quiet after hours of deafening noise.

Before the car pulls up, Harry and Louis stand close together facing each other, wrapped in each other’s arms, not saying anything. They trade soft kisses every so often, and Louis’ terrified to leave this bubble they’ve created. If he leaves this house, and this party, will this feeling of perfect contentment disappear too? He doesn’t want to ever let go of Harry Styles, doesn’t want to ever spend a day not in his arms again.

“Can I see you again soon?” Harry asks quietly, and the hope that’s evident in his voice is killing Louis, breaking his heart and filling him with anticipation all at once.

“Yes,” Louis says simply, and Harry kisses him again, deep and slow.

The car pulls up then, and Louis feels like it’s a blur of saying goodbye and making promises to see each other soon before he’s back in the leather seats of the Model T, rumbling down the back lanes away from Harry’s house.

Louis’ too caught up in the night, caught up in the memories of Harry the entire ride home, of Harry’s lips on his, to notice anything. That _must_ be why he doesn’t notice it at first.

The car pulls up near the curb, and Louis thanks the man one last time before hopping out, whistling the last tune the singer had played at the party before ambling up his walkway. He’s too lost in his own thoughts, too happy, and it’s too late before he sees Stan sitting on the stoop, staring at him with anger in his eyes.

“Nice tux,” he says, his voice full of venom. Louis stops short, stumbles a little, his brain scrambling to figure out what to do. His instincts are telling him to run away, but there’s nowhere to go. Stan stands up, blocking his way to the front door, and he’s throwing daggers at Louis with his eyes. “Where’d you get it?”

 _Lie, lie, lie_ , Louis’ brain is screaming at him, begging him to hide, to protect himself from whatever Stan might do.

“I bought it.”

He hears himself say it, weak even to his own ears, and Stan barks out a humorless laugh.

“Did you buy the car too?”

By now the driver is long gone, but Louis wants to kick himself for not paying attention, for driving up in his own neighborhood in a car nobody could ever afford. He knows his face is heating up, but he hopes it’s not visible in the dark night, that Stan can’t see how afraid he really is right now.

Louis doesn’t respond to his question, just sticks his hands in his pockets, and looks down at the ground. He shouldn’t look away, he should stare him down, stand up to him, but Louis’ never been good at that, not with Stan.

He hears him walking down the stairs, slow, calculated, and Louis thinks he might be sick right here on the lawn.

He glances up, and Stan’s only about a foot away, leering at Louis with an expression he hasn’t seen before. It’s anger and disgust and something violent all wrapped up in one look.

“I told you to stay away from him,” Stan begins, and Louis’ instincts make him cry out, deny it, interrupt him quickly.

“I didn’t-”

Stan lunges forward, grabs Louis by his lapels and roughly jerks him forward. Louis’ words die in his throat and he gasps as Stan hisses in his face.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!”

Louis hands are up by Stan’s, holding onto them lightly, like he wants to push Stan away but he’s too afraid to, too scared to see what will happen. Louis tries to keep his breathing under control, tries hard not to panic.

“Styles is scum, Louis, I told you.”

Indignant anger boils up in Louis instantly, his gut rolling with heated rage at the insult, and he lashes out in defense of Harry instantly, his instincts to protect himself fading away when Stan goes after Harry.

“You really want to talk about scum? That’s rich coming from a dirty cop.”

Stan instantly shoves Louis away, hard, and he stumbles, regaining his balance so he doesn’t fall to ground, but Stan is coming towards him quickly, and Louis knows – knows he’s going to hit him, that he’s going to attack, that Louis won’t be able to do anything to stop it.

“You fucking fag,” Stan says, loud in the quiet night. Louis watches him as if in slow motion, but just as Stan brings his arm back, there’s a loud, authoritative yell from the porch.

“STANLEY.”

It surprises Stan into dropping his arm and whipping his neck around to see Jay standing on the porch, illuminated by the hall light leaking out the front door behind her. She’s got her dressing gown on, and her hair is done up in curlers, but Louis’ never seen her look so powerful, so full of rage, and it stops Stan in his tracks. Before he has a chance to defend himself, though, Jay speaks again.

“I think it’s time for you to go.”

She doesn’t yell, doesn’t really even raise her voice, but her tone is so full of controlled rage that Stan fumbles for a moment, and seems like he doesn’t know what to do.

He ends up mumbling out a quiet “Sorry, ma’am” and turning to walk away. Louis tenses up as Stan walks by him, but he doesn’t try anything. Instead, Louis hears a quiet promise through gritted teeth as he passes.

“This isn’t over.”

Louis watches as he makes his way through the gate, stomping in the direction of his own house a few streets over, and wonders as his heart beats against his ribcage what that promise might mean.

\--

Louis takes a minute to take a deep breath, stretching his back as best he can in the heat of the afternoon, another work day coming to a close beside the harbor.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the party, about Harry, and about the ways in which he feels like life is suddenly completely different for him. It’s been distracting, but in the best way.

It’s so distracting, in fact, that as he’s walking away from the harbor at the end of his shift, he doesn’t notice Harry leaning against his car in the abandoned lot. He almost walks right past him before he hears a low chuckle, and he’s smiling before they even make eye contact, his gut clenching up in excited anticipation.

“Lost in thought?” Harry sounds deeply amused, his dimples popping out, as Louis can’t help but match his smile.

“A little distracted,” Louis admits, shrugging. Harry can probably tell what’s written all over his face, but he doesn’t say it, gives Louis the courtesy of at least pretending they don’t both know what’s going on.

“I was wondering if you would want to go on an adventure with me.”

Louis feels his ears perk up at the word. Everything with Harry feels like an adventure, even standing in this abandoned lot in the middle of the afternoon feels like one, but the thought of being invited feels unreal. Like he still can’t believe he’s being given these opportunities to act like himself for the first time.

He only hesitates for a moment before he says simply, “Okay” and Harry looks more shocked than Louis’ maybe ever seen him. It makes Louis laugh, delighted that he can surprise someone like Harry Styles.

“Okay,” Harry says, and he sounds eager, like a little kid being given a promise.

“Should I go home and change first?” Louis looks down at his overalls. They’re not the worst shape they’ve ever been in, but he definitely looks a little ragged. Although when he looks up, Harry’s already shaking his head no.

“You always look incredible,” Harry says quietly, and Louis looks down at the ground embarrassed. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he just walks around the other side of the car, opens the door and gets in – like he’s meant to be there, like it’s always been his place.

Harry looks ecstatic as he climbs in the driver’s seat, adjusts his mirror, brings the engine to life with a roar, and they’re off.

The summer air blowing in through the windows feels good against Louis’ sweaty skin, a long day in the hot sun having taken its toll. He watches as the town whirs by, giving way to the trees on the outskirts of town, and finally to one solitary, lonely road that they continue to follow.

They don’t say anything, but after they’ve gotten far enough away that they’re the only people around, Harry reaches over and places his hand on top of Louis’. Louis looks at his profile, but Harry’s not looking at him, so he simply turns his hand over and offers it up – smiling at where their hands sit clasped in Louis’ lap.

Louis thought that kissing Harry styles in a dark garden was the best thing that would ever happen to him, but he was wrong. Because this - riding in his car, and holding his hand in the middle of the day – this feels like something even better.

They drive on, trading a little bit of small talk, smiling at each other across the seat, and Louis is surprised to find that he’s not nervous at all. There’s something about being around Harry that makes him feel safe, secure, like no matter where this adventure might take them, he’s okay with it.

Eventually they reach another harbor, one that Louis’ never been to before. It’s less chaotic than his own, he doesn’t see any people milling about, but there seems to be a couple boats docked nearby. Harry parks the car next to a warehouse as the sun is setting, and Louis follows his lead as they get out and walk towards the building.

“We’ll need to wait a bit,” Harry says, and guides Louis with a hand on his lower back towards the door of the warehouse. It’s dark inside but the sun is still leaking through the windows up top, so Louis is able to see it’s full of unmarked crates. He wants to ask questions, he wants to know everything that’s going on, but he also wants Harry to offer it up first, so he stays quiet.

“Do you mind waiting?” Harry’s voice echoes a little in the space. It doesn’t answer any of Louis’ questions – what are they doing here, what are they waiting for? - but Louis finds again that he’s not scared of much at the moment.

“No,” he answers simply, smiling at Harry in the shadowy doorway.

“It shouldn’t be too long,” Harry promises, and Louis simply nods his head.

Harry reaches down and moves his hand from Louis’ lower back to clasp their fingers together again. It makes Louis’ gut drop, makes him feel something like heat. He’s staring at where they’re connected, but Harry brings a hand underneath his chin and tilts his face up towards him, so Louis’ watching his curious expression as he asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

And Louis was wrong. It wasn’t kissing in a garden, and it wasn’t holding hands in the middle of the day in a car. It’s being asked by Harry Styles if he can kiss him again in this shadowy warehouse. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He can’t believe things keep getting better.

All he can do is nod before Harry’s leaning in, pushing their lips together. The explosive feeling hasn’t gone away, if anything it’s more intense than last time, because Louis' not struck with nerves, but rather with an excited sort of desire to find out how good this could be.

Harry’s hands explore his body tentatively, touching his waist, his back, sliding over his shoulders. Every gentle caress feels like a spark, something bigger than it is, and Louis isn’t even paying attention to what his own hands are doing, but they must be making Harry feel good too because he hears little noises of satisfaction coming from him. He can’t believe he’s the one making that happen.

Harry starts to back him up, and he finds himself pushed against the warehouse wall, cold steel digging into his overalls, a contrast to the warm body in front of him.

He doesn’t know how long they kiss, he’s only aware of how his body feels, how Harry feels under his hands, but much too soon they’re jumping apart at the sound of a horn coming from the direction of the harbor.

They breathe heavily for a moment, just watching each other, and then Harry breaks into a smile that Louis is helpless not to mimic.

“Oops,” Harry says, looking sheepish. “Got a little carried away.”

Louis giggles nervously, can’t think of what to say, but Harry simply begins to pull him away towards the exit, and they both walk towards the water together.

The harbor has come to life a bit more since the sun went down, and Louis sees another boat has made its way in, men unloading crates from its deck onto the harbor. Louis watches as Harry walks ahead, an eagerness to his steps, and he hears the calls of greetings from the men who begin to notice him.

“You’re late Styles,” one of them calls, a huge smile on his face and a laugh in his voice. The other men join in, prodding Harry good-naturedly, and he giggles as Louis watches on transfixed. They banter and chat, Harry asks them how they’re doing, asks one man about someone named Fran, and it seems like a well-oiled machine that’s been in place for years. Harry must be at the center of the machine, Louis thinks, because even though the men work without ceasing, it appears that they look to Harry to call the shots.

It makes Louis feel something like pride, seeing how in charge Harry is, seeing how these men obviously respect him, seeing how deeply Harry must care for each of them.

Eventually, someone notices Louis, and Harry invites him over with a smile on his face. He introduces Louis to the crowd, and they call hello and wave enthusiastically. He feels a little shy, but Harry puts an arm around him, bolsters him with a squeeze and he smiles at the crew warmly.

No one seems to bat an eye that Harry’s still holding him close, and a flush of appreciation for the people in Harry’s life runs through Louis, a fleeting thought that maybe Louis could be a part of that life too someday.

Louis’ just caught up in watching what’s happening, so sooner than he realizes, Harry is letting him know it’s time to go. A man approaches them from the direction of Harry’s car and gives the go ahead, indicating that everything is ready. Louis wonders what’s going to happen, where they’re going to go next, but a thrill of excitement runs through him just thinking about participating in something like this.

Harry calls goodbye to the crewmen, and walks hand in hand with Louis to the car, opening up his door for him and kissing him quickly on the cheek before he gets in. Louis blushes, but his insides drop with pleasure at the small gesture.

Once Harry’s seated behind the driver’s seat, and starting the car once again, he glances over at Louis with a hesitant look on his face.

“Was that okay?” Louis’ not sure what he means – the kiss, the harbor, the illegal activity, but Harry goes on before he can answer. “I just want you to see all parts of my life, and this is a pretty big one.”

Louis smiles softly at him and nods his head. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s definitely okay.”

Harry lets out a relieved sigh and starts to drive away from the harbor, glancing around as they make their way back onto the dark road.

“Those guys are like my family,” he says, his headlights cutting through the darkness in front of them, bouncing along the uneven road. “It’s another reason I can’t imagine ever leaving. They depend on the Payne family to keep them employed.”

Louis nods his head in understanding, thinking about how once again Harry Styles has surprised him. Before they met, Louis had a lot of ideas about what bootleggers were like, what kinds of people participated in activities like this, but so far Harry has dispelled every single one of those.

Harry is kind, and generous, and caring, and Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever met anyone like him – bootlegger or not.

“You’re one in a million, Harry Styles,” Louis says, reaching over to place a hand on Harry’s thigh as he drives. The look on Harry’s face takes away any embarrassment Louis might have had over being so candid, so raw, and they continue to drive on in silence for a while, Harry rubbing Louis’ knuckles gently where they sit on his thigh.

Eventually, they make it to a deserted farm house, far away from anything that Louis recognizes. The house is dark, only illuminated now by the headlights as they approach, and it looks like it’s been abandoned for quite some time.

“The true hub of the operation,” Harry says, a joke in his voice, and Louis chuckles, wondering what they’re doing here.

Harry gets out, goes to the trunk quickly, and begins to lift a crate out of it. The entire compartment is packed full of wooden boxes, like the ones that were stacked in the dark warehouse near the harbor. Louis doesn’t hesitate to pick one up himself, surprised at how heavy it is, and follows Harry around the back of the house, waiting patiently as he unlocks the back door. They make their way inside, the eerie silence of the old house surrounding Louis, their footsteps muffled by the layers of dust on the floor.

“What is this place?” Louis makes his voice very quiet, trying not to disrupt the bubble of stillness around them, but his voice still sounds loud in the silence.

Harry sets his crate down on a table in what was probably once a usable kitchen, and turns to look at Louis with a smile. The light from the headlights that Harry left on, as well as the moon, are shining in through the dirty windows, illuminating everything in a strange, hazy glow.

“This is where we keep all our supply before we take it to the club,” Harry says, and Louis follows his lead and sets the heavy crate down on the old wooden table. They spend the next fifteen minutes bringing a few more crates in, Louis breathing a little heavily by the time they're done from the weight of them.

“Not exactly the most glamorous part of the job,” Harry jokes, a little self-deprecatingly, and Louis feels such an overwhelming fondness for him at that moment that he can’t help but walk right up to him and kiss him deeply.  

If Harry’s surprised, he schools it quickly, responding by opening his mouth to Louis’ advances and holding on tightly to his waist.

And Louis’ thoughts get a little fuzzy then, and he doesn’t think about where they are, or what they’re supposed to be there for, because the feeling of Harry’s mouth on his and their hands roaming each other’s bodies outweighs everything. Any sense of holding back is out the window, and Louis pushes further, presses into Harry closer, gets his hands up under his shirt where he can feel his warm skin.

“Touch me,” he whispers between their mouths, not waiting for an answer before diving back in and parting Harry’s lips with his tongue. Harry makes a choked sound, strangled like he can’t believe what Louis just said, and his grip on Louis’ waist digs in sharply. Louis almost can’t believe it either, he’s never touched another man or been touched by one like this, but everything about Harry feels right and perfect, and Louis can’t wait one more minute for it to happen.

Time feels like it’s acting funny, because Louis can’t make his brain concentrate on one single thing, can’t focus on anything - like everything around him is moving quickly, but the feel of Harry reaching down to cup him through his pants feels like time has completely stopped. He gasps into Harry’s mouth and stills, thrusts up minutely into Harry’s hand, and encourages him to keep going with a little whine.

And then everything stills, absolutely everything, because Harry’s hand is on Louis’ hard cock, and he’s never felt anything better, never felt anything so incredible. He has to stop kissing Harry to cry out, but Harry doesn’t stop moving up and down his length, simply leans in and begins sucking a mark into Louis’ pulse point on his neck.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis gasps, his nails digging into Harry’s shoulders harshly. “Don’t stop.”

“Won’t stop, I promise,” Harry whispers into his ear, his hand strong and sure, bringing Louis closer to the edge. Louis has to screw his eyes up tight, feels like his vision is whiting out, doesn’t think he’s ever gotten off this quickly before, but there’s something about Harry’s hand and his mouth and his voice, and soon Louis is coming more forcefully than he can ever remember.

Harry kisses his face, everywhere he can reach, as he steadies Louis with one arm still around his waist. When Louis begins to catch his breath, Harry quickly reaches down to his own pants, and pushes them down as best he can past his thighs, wraps a tight hand around his own cock and starts to get himself off. Louis is still trying to regain composure, but he reaches down and places his own hand over Harry’s, feeling the way that he quickly runs it over his own length, encouraging him with little moans of his own, gently nips at Harry’s neck until he cries out and spills into their palms, over their fingers.

They’re both breathing harshly, leaning into each other, and Louis can feel Harry’s hot breath on his face, tries to gain some composure.

He wonders what Harry’s thinking, wonders if he’s feeling as incredible as Louis is, so it surprises him when he speaks through harsh, ragged breath for the first time.

“I want to take you on a date.”

It startles a laugh out of Louis, the ridiculous contrast between what they just did and how Louis is feeling, and the sweet, innocent words coming out of Harry’s mouth. Harry joins in, and both of them breathlessly laugh into each other’s necks while they try and straighten their clothes out, button their pants, collect themselves.

“As if I could say no,” Louis says, and he means for it to come out teasing, but it just sounds like the honest truth, and Harry hugs him a little tighter.

Louis can’t help but let his mind wander, let himself daydream about spending more nights with Harry, going on dates, kissing him whenever he wants. It doesn’t feel so far off anymore.

\--

Summer starts bleeding into fall, and Louis thinks there’s never been a more perfect time of year, because the hot evenings are starting to give way to cool nights, and he gets to spend them wrapped up in the arms of Harry Styles.

Just like Harry promised, they go out on dates, and Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever felt like things were so special before. Like the first time Harry takes him to the pictures, the silent screen rolling in front of them in the quiet theater, and they sit next to each other and covertly hold hands – it feels like everything is more extraordinary now. Or when Harry invites Louis over to his house, and they jump off the dock that sits behind it into the warm end-of-summer water, their legs twining together underneath the lake’s surface, trading wet kisses as they laugh and splash around. Getting to touch each other, feel other in between the soft sheets of Harry’s bed, exploring each other more deeply - everything feels better, absolutely everything, with Harry in his life.

He tries to forget about Stan and his threats, but he’ll sometimes flash back to that night and get inexplicably scared. Louis sees him once when they’re driving around in Harry’s Model T, as they’re making their way through town back to Harry’s house, and Louis’ gut clenches up in fear. His instinct is to duck down, to hide, to not be seen in this car, but Harry reaches over and places a reassuring hand on his thigh.

“It’s alright,” he says, and it makes Louis feel calmer, safer. He looks straight ahead, his head held high, as they pass Stan on the corner, and Louis can feel his eyes on them but he doesn’t flinch. There’s nothing that could hurt him while he’s with Harry, he’s sure of it.

They spend lazy weekends together like this one, when Louis’ not at the harbor, trading slow kisses in the grass of Harry’s back lawn, laying on a blanket with a picnic basket beside them.

“You’re my favorite part of every day,” Harry whispers into his ear quietly, and Louis smiles, buries his face in Harry’s neck and kisses him gently there.

Louis can feel something bubbling up inside of him, something building, probably since the night that he first laid eyes on Harry Styles, but he doesn’t want to say it yet. He knows that he’s not alone in his feelings, no longer scared of being seen, but he wants to be absolutely sure before he says the words that keep rattling around in his head every time Harry so much as looks at him softly.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Harry always asks this, hopeful, sweet, as if Louis might ever actually say no.

“Of course,” he says, and kisses Harry’s neck one more time.

 _Tomorrow_ , Louis thinks. _Maybe I’ll tell him tomorrow._

\--

The knock comes a little earlier than Louis expected, but it makes him smile, makes his stomach swoop at Harry’s eagerness, and he rushes to open the door before any of his siblings get there.

His face falls and he steps back unconsciously a little when he sees who’s on the other side.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Stan’s got a devilish smile on his face, and even though his tone is sickly sweet, it’s covering up something dark, something that makes Louis’ jaw tense up.

“What do you want Stan?” Louis tries to sound brave and unaffected, but he thinks it might come out a little flat.

“Don’t even have time for someone you used to call your best friend?” Stan shakes his head in mock disappointment, crosses his arms in front of him, and stares Louis down. “You spend five minutes with some bootleggers, and suddenly you’re too good for everyone.”

Louis looks behind him to make sure none of his siblings are around to hear this, rushes out onto the porch and shuts the door behind him.

“Keep your voice down,” he says, sounding panicked. It seems to bolster Stan, give him confidence that he can affect Louis at all.

“Not so proud of it anymore, huh?”

The more Stan talks, the more he uses this tone of superiority, the more fearful Louis gets. He wonders where Harry is, wonders if he’s going to show up while Stan is here, what might happen if the two of them meet face to face again.

He glances around the yard behind Stan, trying to be subtle, but Stan catches the movement.

“Looking for someone?” Louis tries to ignore him, stares back at him and makes eye contact, crosses his arms in an attempt to hide his nerves. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that he’s not gonna show up.”

Louis furrows his brow, and his gut drops instantly.

“Wha- what do you-” He tries hard to keep it together, but his fear is making him stumble.

Stan chuckles, completely mirthless, and leans against the porch railing as he begins to speak, like he’s holding court.

“I told you I’ve been trying to bring him down for a long time, but I never could.” He looks at his nails, not even watching Louis anymore, like he’s got all the time in the world for this. Louis’ anger flares up again, but he keeps quiet. “And then I figured it out. I was going about it all wrong. Styles is hard to catch because he’s stupid and reckless, he doesn’t give a shit about what happens to him.”

Louis can’t help it when he feels something like pride bubble up in him, his thoughts screaming about how brave Harry is, how wonderful.

“But ya know what he does give a shit about? The people he works with.”

Dread grabs Louis’ heart, and he immediately thinks about Niall and Liam, the Payne family, wondering what Stan has done. He’s about to ask, about to demand answers, but Stan continues on lazily like they’re just two old friends chatting about the weather.

“Turns out all I needed to do was put in a little threat to those Canucks he’s in cahoots with, and he came running like a little bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Louis spits out, and Stan looks a little taken aback for a second, surprised at Louis’ candor, but he schools it quickly.

“Whoa,” he says, holding up his hands in front of him like a peace offering. “No need to get so feisty. Styles heard the whole lot of ‘em were gonna be arrested, and I’m sure he rushed to their aid like the little noble knight he is. My buddies have strict orders to nab Styles the second he steps foot on that harbor.”

Louis’ mouth feels incredibly dry, and his lungs burn like he can’t catch his breath. He’s speaking again before he even knows it.

“You’re lying,” he says, hoping beyond hope that he’s right, that Stan is bluffing, that Harry’s safe at home. There’s a part of him though, maybe a large part, that knows if Stan threatened anyone Harry cares about, of course he would be there in a heartbeat.

“‘Fraid not, friend,” Stan says jovially, condescendingly, and Louis tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “You picked the wrong side, Louis, I wish you could see that.”

Louis cuts of Stan before he can continue, screaming at him, “Get outta here!” Stan recoils a little at the demand, but simply scoffs and shakes his head before retreating from the porch.

“You’ll see,” he says, walking backwards down the lawn towards the road, pointing at Louis. “I’m right, and you’ll see. Styles is going away for a long time, and he’s gonna get exactly what he deserves.”

Louis doesn’t respond, just glares until Stan turns around and walks down the sidewalk out of sight. Once he’s finally alone again, a deep panic begins to set in, and Louis isn’t sure what to do.

His thoughts are running a million miles a second, thinking about Harry, wondering if he’s safe, wondering if Stan was telling the truth. If Harry did get caught, what would happen to him? Could he get himself out of trouble? Would the Payne family be able to help, or Liam- _Liam_.

Louis freezes in his thoughts, and suddenly realizes that if anyone would know what happened to Harry, it was Liam. He doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate, just starts running towards town as fast as he can. He would never be able to make it to the harbor in time, but the speakeasy is close enough, and maybe (he hopes beyond hope) Harry is actually there safe and sound.

His feet slap heavily on the pavement, and his chest burns with the exertion, but he doesn’t dare slow down until he finds himself outside the speakeasy door. He starts pounding on it, shouting for Harry, shouting for anyone, hoping someone will hear him and open the door.

A very disgruntled and confused looking Liam ends up opening the door, poking his head out angrily before he sees that it’s Louis.

“Lou? What the hell man,” he says, dragging Louis in by the elbow, shutting the door firmly behind them, guiding a heavily breathing Louis into the dimly lit bar, the chairs turned upside down on their tables, the whole place empty and quiet during the afternoon. Liam grabs a couple of the upturned chairs and sets them on the ground, gestures for Louis to sit, but Louis takes a moment to lean forward and catch his breath. 

“Harry,” he wheezes out. “Harry is- Stan said- he, where is he?”

He can’t form a coherent sentence, and judging by the look on Liam’s face, he’s not making much sense with his strangled words.

“Slow down, take a minute,” Liam says, comforting Louis as best he can in his confusion. Louis tries to slow his heart, takes a few deep, calming breaths and takes a seat next to Liam at the table.

He tries to start again.

“Is Harry okay?”

Liam looks confused and worried, and he takes a seat next to Louis, then scratches his head.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “We got word that he and Niall were needed at the harbor, but I haven’t seen them since then. What happened?”

Louis dives into the whole story, his friendship with Stan, the fight they had after Harry’s party, and him showing up at Louis’ door this morning with promises of finally arresting Harry.

“Shit,” Liam says quietly, anger in his voice. “That fucking asshole.”

Louis puts his face in his hands and fears the worst.

“We’ve never had a problem with the police,” Liam continues, explaining, and Louis glances up to watch him. He’s wringing his hands on the table, and looks more troubled than Louis’ ever seen him. “But there was something about Harry that Stan just hated, from the moment we got to town.” Louis remembers the first night he met Harry, the venom in Stan’s voice when Harry made a fool of him, and his fear doubles. “Stan would never dare go against the whole organization, but Harry must have seemed like an easy target for him.”

 _He was wrong_ , Louis thinks, but he has to remind himself that Stan finally found Harry’s biggest weakness – his love for the people he works with.

“Stan mentioned threatening your shippers, that’s why Harry went to the harbor.”

Liam lets out a frustrated groan and shakes his head, bangs his fist on the table.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let him go, but he swore he could handle it,” he says, sadness creeping into his voice. Louis feels like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin, and he hates just sitting there feeling helpless. Luckily, Liam speaks again after a moment of silence. “Let’s go.”

He jumps up from the table, and Louis doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t think at all, simply follows Liam outside into the bright sun as he locks up the speakeasy. They hop into Liam’s car that’s parked nearby at the curb, and before Louis can even gather his thoughts they’re rushing out of town, making their way to the harbor. Louis hopes the whole way without ceasing that Harry will be there, that he’s safe, that Stan was wrong somehow.

They screech into the parking lot of the warehouse, the sun glinting off the water in diamond-like shimmers, but it looks deserted. There’s no boats, no yells of friendly greeting from anyone, just the sound of lapping waves against the dock, and Louis begins to panic once more.

“Where is he?” His voice sounds strained, high-pitched, and he can’t even conceal his fear anymore.

“I don’t know,” Liam says lowly, killing the engine and sounding just as scared as Louis feels. They both hop out and make their way towards the water, but Louis’ not sure what they’re looking for – they’re clearly the only ones around.

Louis jumps when he hears someone calling them from behind the warehouse, and he turns to see Niall running towards them, his face red and his chest heaving.

“Liam! Lou!” He gets close enough that Louis can see the sweat beading on his forehead as he leans over and tries to catch his breath. Liam rushes towards him and wraps him in a tight hug.

“Niall, you’re okay,” he says, the relief palpable. But then, “Where’s Harry?” 

Niall can’t speak yet, can only shake his head ominously, and the dread bubbles up out of Louis.

“What happened? Is he okay?” He can hear the hysteria in his own voice, but he doesn’t care right now. He only wants to know what happened, wants to know where Harry is.

“He’s okay,” Niall wheezes out, finally standing up and squinting at them in the bright light of the afternoon. Liam and Louis both exhale in relief and wait for Niall to continue. “He managed to hop on the boat with the guys and hightail it out of here. It was probably only a matter of minutes before the cops showed up, questioned me for a long time too.”

Louis’ head is spinning.

“So,” he pauses. “He’s- he’s okay? But- he’s not here.”

“No,” Niall shakes his head. “He figured out pretty quickly it was a sting once we got here and the guys were fine. He made me stay behind, said they were only after him, said he’d be safer crossing the border.”

“He’s good at laying low,” Liam chimes in, and Louis swivels his head to watch him, his eyes narrowed.

“Laying low?” Louis can’t believe how calm they both sound. “He’s in Canada?”

They both nod, but don’t say anything more.

“When can he come back?”

The silence is deafening, and Liam and Niall both avoid Louis’ gaze, stare at the ground instead.

“He,” Louis swallows thickly, trying not to let his emotion overcome him. “He can come back, right?”

“Louis,” Liam starts, but his voice is too gentle, too placating, and Louis loses it.

“No,” he says, his voice carrying across the harbor, bouncing off the metal warehouse close by. “There’s got to be something we can do, this is bullshit.”

Niall and Liam both look pained, like they want to break down.

“It’s that fucker Stan,” Niall says, spits on the ground in anger, and Louis covers his face with his hands.

“This is all my fault,” he laments, wanting to burst into tears but trying hard to control himself. “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t made Stan angry.”

“No,” Liam interrupts him, and he sounds insistent, so Louis looks at him questioningly. “This is not on you Louis, okay? This is all Stan. None of this would have happened if he wasn’t so vindictive.”  

They stand there for a moment in silence, and Louis’ mind reels. He can’t accept that there’s nothing to be done, it’s not an option.

“Here,” Niall breaks the silence, reaching out for Louis with something in his hand. “He told me to give you this.”

It’s a crumpled piece of paper, something that looks like it was hastily taken out of a pocket, nothing more than a scrap. But Louis snatches it immediately, opens it up and sees a messily scribbled word in Harry’s block letter writing.

RAINCHECK?

There’s a heart drawn next to it, and Louis’ vision swims in front of him with unshed tears, his gut clenching up in anger and sadness and frustration.

“What can we _do_?” He puts all the force he can in his voice, the confidence that he doesn’t really feel at the moment, hoping that he can inspire the two of them to figure something out.

“Well,” Liam says tentatively, and Louis watches as he and Niall exchange a dark look.

“What is it?” Louis is willing to do anything, anything, to get Harry back.

“It might not work,” Niall starts, but Louis cuts him off.

“What _is it_ Niall?”

Again, they share that loaded glance with each other, and Louis realizes then that he’s going to have to be a lot more involved than he thought.

“We know you’re friends with Stan,” Liam starts, sounding hesitant and unsure.

“No,” Louis insists, his voice hardened. “I don’t care about that, I’ll do anything.”

He looks at Liam without blinking, trying to show him how serious he is, and Liam sighs deeply before nodding once.

“Alright, well look,” he starts, rubbing his hands together. “I’m convinced that if we get the heat off Harry, if we get rid of the one person who’s fixated on him, all this will go away.”

“Stan,” Louis says simply, and they both confirm with short, quick nods. Louis takes in a deep breath and steels himself. “What do I need to do?”

Liam and Niall glance at each other once again, an unspoken conversation happening between them, and they look fidgety. Louis’ patience is running out, they’re wasting precious time, so he gestures for them to get a move on, waving his hand in the air quickly.

“Harry made us promise you would never get involved in this sort of thing,” Niall admits quietly, looking down at the ground, sounding shameful.

“Things are different now,” Louis says, and he sounds authoritative, collected. He sounds like he hasn’t got a fear in the world, and he almost, _almost,_ believes it himself. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

\--

Louis is sweating. Summer is over, the oppressive heat no longer pushing down around him constantly, but he’s still sweating profusely. His hands are slippery, and he rubs them on his pant legs to dry them some. It won’t do to sweat during this, it could give him away the second Stan opens the door.

He’s walking slowly over to Stan’s neighborhood, going over the plan in his head meticulously.

It’s taken two days to get things into place. Two long, torturous days of not hearing from Harry, not knowing if he’s okay. Liam and Niall both try to reassure Louis multiple times that he’s safe, that he’s with people who love him, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in Louis’ heart – the hole that feels like it won’t be filled until Harry’s back here, in Louis’ arms.

He runs over what he’s going to say one last time as he approaches Stan’s walkway, gulps to himself and glances around, but doesn’t see anyone on the street. He tries hard to appear nonchalant as he strolls up to the door and knocks twice, loudly.

Too quickly, Stan is opening the door, a look of surprise on his face at seeing Louis that he morphs quickly into something more hardened, guarded.

“What do you want,” he questions, grunting it out in a gravelly voice. Louis feels a swell of anger coming face to face with Stan for the first time in two days. He reminds himself of the plan, the reason he’s here, and tries to fight the urge to just attack, to hit Stan in the face and make him feel a fraction of the pain that Louis does right now.

Instead, he pastes on his best apologetic smile and looks up at Stan with what he hopes is remorse.

“You were right,” he starts, not wasting time on greetings or small talk. The sooner this is over with, the sooner Louis can be reunited with Harry.

Stan’s brow furrows, and he gets a comical look of confusion on his face, like he was expecting something completely different to come out of Louis’ mouth.

“Right about what?” He crosses his arms as he leans against the doorway, a defensive gesture that Louis struggles not to mimic. He keeps his arms at his side, keeps his body language as neutral as possible.

He sighs dejectedly, dramatically, and dives into the speech he’s rehearsed over and over the past two days.

“You were right about Harry Styles,” he says, looking down at the grown and frowning, not daring to watch Stan’s expression lest he give away something accidentally. “He lied to me. He lied, and he screwed me over, and you were completely right, Stan.”

Louis begins to chew on his fingernail nervously, hoping he’s conveying a look regret, a tone of remorse, as he continues.

“I never should have gotten caught up in all of that,” he sighs heavily and crosses his arms, lowers his voice so Stan has to lean forward a little to hear him. “He swore I’d never have to get involved in anything, and then the son of a bitch tries to get me to break the law for him.”

“What do you mean?” Stan sounds feverish, curious, and Louis has to suppress a smile that he’s gotten him on his hook so easily.

Louis sighs again, really laying it on thick.

“They’ve got this shipment that someone needs to drive across county lines, and they tried to get me to do it. Offered me five hundred dollars too, but I said no.”

Louis can hear the moment Stan’s breath catches, even when he’s not watching him, and he knows his ears have perked up at the mention of that much money.

He finally looks up, adopts the sincerest expression he can muster, and goes in for the kill.

“They told me the money would be waiting for me along with the car whenever I changed my mind, but I knew I had to come tell you. I knew you would help me out, that you wouldn’t let them get away with this.”

He thinks he’s done a nice job of sounding both appalled and apologetic, and he internally pats himself on the back as he watches the gears turn in Stan’s brain.

“I’m so sorry Stan,” he adds on. “Those good for nothing bootleggers are scum, I should have listened to you in the first place.”

Stan is struggling to figure out what to say, nodding his head and making small noises like he wants to start speaking, and it almost makes Louis laugh. It’s comical how predictable Stan can be, and Louis wonders sadly what he ever saw in their friendship.

“Don’t worry,” Stan says finally, adopting a tone of superiority. “I’ll handle everything Louis.”

Louis sighs in mock gratitude. “Thank you Stan, I knew I could count on you.”

After Louis explains to him exactly where to find the car, they make hollow promises to see each other soon, and Louis scurries out of there as quickly as he can, hoping fervently that his lie was enough to get Stan to do what he needs him to do.

If he’s learned anything about Stan in the recent past, however, he won’t have to wait long.

\--

It still takes a few days. A few days of worry, of desperate hope, of aching sadness where Louis thinks more than once about the possibility that he never got to say goodbye to Harry, and that he might never get to.

He’s sitting at home on a Saturday morning, not able to do much but think about Harry, trying hard to play with his siblings as they’re climbing all over him and clambering for his attention. His mother walks by the living room and casually calls out, “Louis, go get the paper please.”

“Um, okay,” he says, cumbersomely peeling toddlers off of him and standing up from the hard floor. He’s not sure why she couldn’t just pop out there and grab it, but he’s nothing if not respectful of his mother, so he makes his way to the front door and opens it and –

He gasps.

Standing on his porch, leaning against the banister reading the paper is a casual, and gorgeous, looking Harry.

He looks up at the noise Louis makes, and smiles like he hasn’t just been missing for a week, like he hasn’t been on the run from the law in a foreign country.

“Hello,” he says, and Louis can tell he’s trying to hold in a laugh, trying hard to keep the joke going, but Louis is having none of it.

He crosses the distance between them quickly, pushes the paper out of his way, and kisses Harry so deeply that eventually he hears his mother walk by and closed the door, sounding scandalized.

When they finally come up for air, Louis’ eyes fill with tears as he searches Harry’s face – his beautiful, perfect face.

“I thought I might never see you again,” he confessed, and Harry cups his cheek, rubs his face gently with his thumb.

“Couldn’t ever keep me away, Lou,” Harry says quietly, and Louis blinks as a few tears fall freely. “Don’t cry love.”

“What happened?” Louis’ voice is thick with emotion, and Harry sighs.

“It’s a long story,” he admits simply. “I’ll tell you all about it another time, but right now I just want to hold you.”

Louis nods and hugs Harry closer, burying his face in his chest, smelling his distinct scent that he missed so much.

“Take a look at this though,” Harry murmurs into his hair, and Louis glances up to see the paper still in one of Harry’s hands, the headline catching his eye.

LOCAL COPPER CAUGHT RED HANDED; STANLEY LUCAS THROWN IN JAIL FOR RUM RUNNING

Louis’ not sure how to feel, as he quickly scans the article, all parts of the missing story falling into place. Stan did just what Louis, Liam, and Niall expected – he went off to find the car they planted, hoping to steal the money no doubt, and was caught by the awaiting police officers that Liam called upon.

“So what’s gonna happen?” Louis knows that even with Stan in jail, there’s still the possibility that Harry could get in trouble, that they all could.

“Well,” Harry starts, and he looks sheepish, pulls Louis over to the steps and encourages him to take a seat. “Let’s just say that Liam and his parents,” Harry pauses here, bites his lip a little and looks down. “They greased the wheels a little bit.”

Louis reaches out and puts his hand on Harry’s thigh, which seems to bolster him some, because he smiles down at his lap.

“Essentially made my warrant go away.”

Louis nods his head, and meets Harry’s eyes when he looks up, tries to smile at him, but it falls a little flat.

“What’s wrong?” And of course Harry would know right away that Louis was feeling conflicted, can probably read it all over his face.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” Louis says honestly, and squeezes Harry’s hand where it’s under his own. “I just-”

Harry hooks a hand under his chin, forces him to look up, furrows his brow.

“You can tell me,” he says, and Louis takes a deep breath.

“I just worry about what we did to Stan,” he confesses, and he sort of wants to look away, but Harry’s got a hold on him, making him feel safer. “Doesn’t seem right somehow that he’s in jail for doing something that other people do too.”

Harry sighs and drops his hand, allows Louis to look away if he wants to, but Louis’ staring at him, watching him contemplate what he’s just said.

He looks back up and smiles softly at Louis.

“You have a good heart,” he says, and Louis blushes. He doesn’t know about that, but Harry says it with such confidence that it makes Louis’ insides flutter. “And I understand why you feel that way, but things aren’t always so black and white.”

Louis continues to watch, doesn’t interrupt, just waits for Harry to continue. It takes him a minute, because he’s always speaking so slowly and Louis always feels captivated.

“I used to worry that I wasn’t really a good person,” Harry says, and he sounds a little sad. Louis wants to interrupt him, to reach out and comfort him, but Harry continues before he can. “Thought maybe I was just lying to myself about it, that what I did for a living actually negated any goodness in me.”

He takes a deep breath and stares into Louis’ eyes as he says, “But then I met you.” Louis’ heart clenches up, and he feels an uncontrollable swell of emotion.

“You were so adamant, _so adamant_ , that I was good, and I finally started to believe it too,” Harry says, and he reaches up to cup Louis’ cheek again. Louis nuzzles into him just a little. “So I think it’s really, at the end of the day, got nothing to do with our actions, and everything to do with who we are inside. And I don’t want to speak for Stan, but I do know,” he pauses here, leans in and gently kisses Louis on the lips. “You and me? We’re good.”

Louis leans back in immediately and kisses him deeper, tries to convey what he’s feeling with his movements – _yes, you’re good, thank you, I love you, I love you so much_.

He feels bold, feels better having heard Harry’s words, and he knows he’s ready to take a chance.

He smirks at Harry a little, watches as Harry’s dimples pop out when he smiles back at Louis.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says teasingly. “How good can someone be who fell in love with a lawless bootlegger?”

Louis watches as the realization creeps over Harry’s face, dims his smile for just a second before joy bursts forth out of him, an ecstatic expression on his face. Louis is helpless not to beam back at him.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, still smiling ceaselessly.

Louis just nods, and Harry dives in to kiss him fiercely, peppers little ones all over his face and cheeks as Louis laughs, murmurs without stopping, “I love you. I love you so much. Can’t believe how much I love you.”

It makes Louis feel like his heart is going to burst from happiness. He answers as best he can between kisses, “I love you, too.”

Eventually the kisses slow, and Harry lingers on Louis’ lips for a while, the soft touch of them still giving Louis butterflies.

“Come on,” Harry whispers between them, and stands up, reaches a hand out for Louis. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Louis asks, even though he’s already taking Harry’s offer, standing up without hesitation.

“I don’t know,” Harry says with a smile, and Louis laughs at his honesty. Harry pulls him in closely by the waist, kisses his cheek and whispers in his ear, “But everywhere I go with you feels like an adventure.”

Louis smiles, nods quietly and kisses Harry once on the lips before walking with him towards the road, hand in hand.


End file.
